


The Lady of Storm's End

by Sarah_Black



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Character Development, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Internal Conflict, Jealousy, Letters, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sansa is underage by modern standards but grown up by asoiaf standards, Sansa tries to be nice to Stannis, Stannis does not understand this 'nice', Wedding Night, Weddings, sexual awakening, wildlings and white walkers threaten the peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 148,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/pseuds/Sarah_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa was supposed to marry someone brave, gentle and strong. Lord Stannis Baratheon was not what she had in mind.</p><p>Or: The one where Sansa is never betrothed to Joffrey, never loses Lady, and only comes to King's Landing to attend King Robert's wedding feast. The king is marrying Margaery Tyrell as Cersei's treason has been exposed and dealt with.</p><p>But things are never simple when the Iron Throne is in desperate need of heirs and wildlings threaten the peace...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Betrothal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Knight of Storm's End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4406963) by [EmynIthilien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmynIthilien/pseuds/EmynIthilien). 



> This story is very much inspired by [EmynIthilien's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmynIthilien/pseuds/EmynIthilien) [The Squire of Dragonstone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3921901) and [The Knight of Storm's End.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4406963) It is not necessary to read them to understand my fic, but I recommend them with all of my heart.
> 
> I would like to sincerely thank [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid) for the enormous amount of help she gave me with this story. She went above and beyond the duties of a beta reader and made this story so much more coherent than it would have been without her. Seriously, she is a genius.
> 
> Special thanks to [Tommyginger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/pseuds/Tommyginger) as well for bringing Blue and me together on this project and for being excited and enthusiastic about this story. ♥
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** GRRM owns ASOIAF and I do not. I make no money due to this fic and I don't plan to.

Sansa had mourned it bitterly when her father had decided not to accept King Robert’s invitation to become his Hand and move to King’s Landing. She had cried for days when she had found out that she would not be moving south, would not be betrothed to Prince Joffrey, and would not see all of her dreams come true.

Arya had made fun of her for wanting to marry Prince Joffrey, but Arya did not understand _anything._

It had been a very difficult time in Sansa’s life, and no one had taken much notice of her as everyone was much too occupied with Bran. His fall had terrified Sansa, and she had gone to the sept every day to light candles for him, but when it became clear that he would live, even though he would never walk again, she had gone right back to brooding over her lost dreams. 

It had taken Sansa _months_ to get over her disappointment, and as it turned out, Jon’s letters had been the biggest help. 

Sansa had not given it much thought when Lord Stannis of Dragonstone, King Robert’s brother, had asked Jon Snow to be his squire. She had always expected Jon take service somewhere, or perhaps join the Night’s Watch, but it did not really change anything for her whether he was on the Wall or off in the south with Lord Stannis. Except of course that he would be able to write to her and tell her all about the latest fashions in the south, and perhaps some of the news from King’s Landing as Dragonstone was not far from the capital. He had given her a crooked little smile before he left and promised to do his best, though he warned her he did not have her eye for fashion, nor her flair for describing such things on paper.

His letters were a little formal and clumsy, but his stories and awkward attempts at describing Lady Selyse and her gowns transported Sansa there in her imagination. Mostly Jon spoke of his training and his relationship with the young Lady Shireen, however.

_She reminds me of you in some ways, but of Arya in others. She is so clever and well behaved like you, but very taken with the idea of adventure, too, like Arya…_

Jon spoke very highly of Lord Stannis, and Sansa found it very peculiar. Stannis had not left much of an impression on her when he had been in Winterfell. He was nothing like Ser Jaime Lannister, and absolutely _nothing_ like King Robert. If she had to liken him to anyone, it would perhaps be her father. They were both solemn and serious, but Lord Stannis had always seemed so displeased as well. Her father never scowled quite so much as Lord Stannis tended to do. Sansa supposed he might be the sort of person one needed to spend a bit more time with before he allowed one to get to know him.

As the years went by, Jon’s letters started to contain much more serious matters. He never went into much detail - one never knew when a raven might get intercepted - but he told Sansa about the civil war that broke out when Lord Stannis revealed that King Robert had been cuckolded by none other than Ser Jaime Lannister and that the three royal children were all incest begotten bastards. Sansa had been frightened when the first news of the trouble in the south had reached the north, but her father told her to have courage, and that it was unlikely that the war would spread all the way to Winterfell. She was safe. He would take care of her always.

“What about Jon?” she had asked, worried and scared for her bastard brother.

“Lord Stannis will have trained him well. I doubt any harm will come to Jon.”

When at last the Lannister forces were defeated, a trial began. Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime Lannister were found guilty of treason and they were both sentenced to death. Prince Joffrey had died during the war, apparently in an attempt to escape to Lannisport, but Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen were to be spared. Sansa was very glad to hear it, for it would have broken her heart if two innocent children were to be put to death because their parents had sinned. The princess and the young prince had been so very sweet and gentle when they had been at Winterfell, and Sansa had spent perhaps more time than was wise imagining how they would become brother and sister to her once she wed Joffrey. It would have been a cruel injustice to take the lives of such beautiful kind children. According to Jon’s letters, it had been Lord Stannis who had insisted they should be spared; that it would not be just to put them to death. Sansa promised herself she would make Lord Stannis something pretty - perhaps an embroidered handkerchief - to give to him if she ever met him.

Sansa’s opportunity came more quickly than she would ever have expected.

“A royal wedding!” Sansa couldn’t believe it. They would all be going south to attend King Robert’s wedding feast. King Robert would be wedding Lady Margaery Tyrell to cement the alliance between House Baratheon and House Tyrell. During the war with the Lannisters, Lord Renly of Storm’s End had rallied House Tyrell to the Baratheon cause, and the added strength of the Tyrell forces had been instrumental in the defeat of the Lannister army. Sadly, Lord Renly had died in battle, but Sansa was sure he would be remembered in many songs and heroic tales.

 _Lord Stannis isn’t best pleased about the prospect of King Robert allying himself so thoroughly with the Tyrells. He hasn’t forgotten the siege of Storm’s End,_ wrote Jon in his last letter, and it made Sansa ask her father to tell her about the siege.

“I’d rather not tell you too much about such things,” her father said grimly, “you would understand if you had seen the men who survived it. They were starved near to death when I lifted the siege… Lord Stannis and his people had somehow survived on rats and boot leather until Ser Davos Seaworth managed to smuggle in a supply of food.”

Sansa imagined how awful it must be to experience something like that, eating disgusting rats, being able to see one’s bones through one’s skin, listening to one’s own stomach growl for hours on end, and gnawing on boot leather just to feel something between one’s teeth... She worked even harder on embroidering the handkerchief she intended to give to Lord Stannis when she thought of the siege, feeling that surely he deserved every kindness after having gone through such an ordeal -- even though it was years in the past now.

She was embroidering a handkerchief for Jon, too, to celebrate the fact that Lord Stannis had granted him a knighthood due to his valiant efforts in the war. She regretted how she had often treated him with indifference when they had been children, and she hoped her favour would indicate to him that she considered him a brother, despite his ignoble birth. Sansa did not know whether Jon had a sigil yet, but she decided to embroider a white direwolf with red eyes into Jon’s pocket square as a reference to Ghost. For Lord Stannis she was, of course, creating a very detailed image of a stag in reference to the Baratheon sigil.

“What are you working on?” her mother asked one evening on the road to King’s Landing. They had stopped for the night and Sansa was using the precious candlelight to finish the edge design on Stannis’ handkerchief.

“A small gift for Lord Stannis. I’ve made one for Ser Jon, too,” Sansa explained.

At the mention of Jon’s name her mother’s eyes went a little cold. “Perhaps you ought to save your favours for some of the more _eligible_ men in King’s Landing,” her mother said a little coolly, “rather than waste them on a married lord and a bastard knight.”

Sansa frowned, but bowed her head. “They are not meant as anything but tokens of gratitude,” she tried to explain, feeling a little embarrassed.

Her mother’s expression softened a little at that. “Of course,” she said with her usual warmth, “and you are right to keep up with your sewing.” Her mother picked up a brush and started to run it through Sansa’s long hair. “You are sure to meet many young men of good standing at King Robert’s wedding feast. I have spoken to your father about it, and we agree that this will be a good opportunity to look around for a suitable match for you.”

Sansa hadn’t dared to hope that her father would agree to look for a match for her in the south, but now that her mother had confirmed it, she could hardly breathe in enough air to prevent herself from becoming dizzy. She might wed a southron lord! The south seemed a land of unlimited possibilities to her. It was not just the fashion, the exciting tourneys and feasts, or the more gentile manners of southron people that excited her, but also the variety of skills that could be learnt! She very much wanted to learn to play the high harp, but proper musicians rarely made it as far north as Winterfell, and she had sorely lacked for tutilige.

It took her a long time to fall asleep that night; her heart kept beating so fast and so loud that it kept her from being able to find peace.

Sansa almost forgot all about propriety and courtesy when she saw Jon again for the first time in _years._ She wanted to run up to him and start interrogating him about all the things he had alluded to in his letters but not explained to Sansa’s satisfaction. She was no longer a child, however, and as a woman flowered she needed to adhere to certain standards of behaviour. So she waited until it was appropriate for her to curtsey and greet the freshly knighted Ser Jon Snow with a few polite words and a demure smile.

Once everyone had finished greeting Jon, Sansa waited impatiently to have a chance to speak _properly_ with him. She had hidden the pocket square she had embroidered for him up the sleeve of her gown as she wanted to give it to him without Arya or her brothers noticing.

“Ser Jon, thank you so much for all your letters,” she said softly when the other had started to talk amongst themselves.

“You don’t have to call me ser, Sansa,” Jon said with a lopsided smile. It was the same as his old smiles, but different in his more grown up face. He was a man grown; tall and strong, his face somehow hardened, though his eyes remained gentle when they looked at her.

Sansa wondered if the changes the years had wrought on her were as noticeable to him.

“I made you this,” she said, returning his smile and revealing the handkerchief.

Jon accepted it with a look of surprised gratification on his face. “For me?” he asked uncertainly, examining the fine cloth and tracing the embroidery with his fingers.

“For your bravery in the war,” Sansa said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank you,” he said, sounding almost a little choked up.

“You’re welcome,” she returned with a shy smile, “I made one for Lord Stannis, too. I was so glad when you wrote about how he demanded Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen be spared.”

Jon looked amused for a moment, but squashed the expression when he saw that she had noticed it. “I’m sure Lord Stannis will be - er - honoured to receive your favour,” he said a little awkwardly.

Sansa searched his eyes, feeling confused. “You don’t think he’ll like it?” she asked dejectedly.

“Er, Lord Stannis is a complicated man,” Jon said, scratching the back of his head with a bemused expression. “I doubt he’ll take offence, but he might not react the way you’d expect him to. He doesn’t really care for courtesies and such things.”

“Well, I don’t care how he responds. It’s important to me that I do what I can to show him how much it meant to me that someone stood up for two innocent children, and I also wanted to show my appreciation for what he has done for you. He doesn’t have to do anything except accept the handkerchief.”

“As long as you expect nothing more, you probably won’t be disappointed.”

Sansa did not get a chance to meet Stannis until the day before the wedding feast. Her family was invited to share the midday meal with King Robert and his brother as King Robert was insisting on a break from the wedding preparations to spend time with his oldest friend. Sansa suspected that Stannis had been invited as an afterthought, but she had nothing but a feeling to support her suspicion.

They ate outside in the garden, enjoying the view of the flowers and the trees all around them. Sansa enjoyed the view, at least -- she was not sure many of the others really noticed it. When everyone had eaten their fill they stood up to stretch their legs and talk in smaller groups. Sansa noticed that Stannis kept back from the others, and that he looked to be on the verge of leaving entirely. She approached him, feeling very bold and anxious at the same time. She had never really spoken to him properly and she was worried he might consider her beneath his notice.

“Lord Stannis,” she said respectfully, “I do not wish to take up much of your time, but I pray you would accept this small token of gratitude from me.” She presented him with the folded handkerchief and met his eyes bravely.

“Gratitude?” Stannis barked hoarsely, furrowing his brow. He hadn’t reached to accept the soft, embroidered fabric, but Sansa was undeterred and continued to hold it out to him.

“Yes, my lord. I am very grateful to you for being the one to insist that Queen Cersei’s remaining children be spared. They were innocent of the crimes committed by their parents. I am also grateful for all you have done for Ser Jon.” Sansa was proud of how little her voice shook, and she lifted her chin slightly when she finished speaking. Stannis’ eyes were a very dark blue, and he looked a little taken aback.

“Please,” she added, still holding her small favour out to him.

Lord Stannis cleared his throat and looked around as if to ascertain whether anyone was watching. When he seemed satisfied that they were not being observed, he accepted the pocket square and tucked it away up his sleeve. He nodded at her curtly.

“That was unnecessary, my lady,” he said, his tone clipped to the point of rudeness.

“With respect, my lord, I disagree,” Sansa said softly, dropping into a curtsey and then hurrying to stand beside her mother, her heart pounding frantically. She watched Stannis out of the corner of her eye, observing how he stood frozen for a full minute after she had left him before turning on his heel and stalking off. Jon hurried after him, rushing through his good-byes and giving Robb a wry grin.

Sansa really didn’t know why Jon thought so highly of Lord Stannis. He was very abrupt, and did not seem inclined to bother with being properly civil. It really was very odd because King Robert was always so jolly and genial. How could two brothers be so different? Sansa spotted Arya and immediately felt foolish for thinking such a thing. She was intimately familiar with how it was possible to be completely different from a sibling.

She put Lord Stannis out of her mind for the rest of the day; too excited about the gown she was going to wear to the wedding feast and how she was planning to style her hair to really give the stern, unpleasant man much thought.

King Robert’s wedding feast was everything Sansa could possibly have hoped for. A huge spectacle with every important person in Westeros in attendance; colourful, gorgeous gowns and jewels adorning every lady, expensive and impressive fabrics draped over every lord. The entertainers were more amusing and more talented than any Sansa had ever seen before; mummers, singers, fools, and fire breathers from Essos making the occasion a gay one. Sansa’s taste buds were stretched to the limit as she had the opportunity to try exotic dishes from all over the world -- there were even a few northern treats on offer!

Sansa was in high demand when the dancing started, and after two hours of dancing with what felt like every man at the feast she was _exhausted._ Her pretty gown was starting to feel stifling, and she was sure there were probably some unseemly stains darkening the fabric due to her perspiration. She simply had to sit down and have a drink.

“Have you been enjoying yourself?” her mother asked indulgently when Sansa collapsed into a seat next to her.

“Oh, yes!” Sansa exclaimed happily, “I’ve never danced so much in my life!”

“And have your dance partners been behaving?”

“Yes, of course. Everyone has been perfectly proper.”

“Good. You should be careful about who you dance with from now on. They’ll be getting deeper into their cups, and some will be prone to forgetting their manners.”

Sansa blushed and nodded.

“I saw you danced with Lancel Lannister twice. Was he to your particular liking?” her mother asked shrewdly, giving Sansa a piercing look.

Sansa thought about it briefly and shook her head. Lancel had all been nice enough - and a good dancer - but he had not made her stomach feel full of butterflies as Prince Joffrey had. No one she had danced with had produced such a reaction. In any case, Sansa did not think it would be wise to align with the Lannisters now that they were practically in disgrace.

Their conversation was cut short by Lord Baelish. He came over and asked her mother to dance, addressing her as ‘Cat’ and ignoring Sansa for the most part after the initial introduction and acknowledgement of her existence. Feeling a little at loose ends after her mother left with Lord Baelish, Sansa wandered over to the next familiar person she saw. As it turned out, it was Jon.

“Ser Jon, Lord Stannis,” Sansa said politely when she approached them. They nodded at her in turn, murmuring greetings.

“Have you not been dancing?” Sansa asked Jon, curious to see that he did not look even a little bit flushed or sweaty.

“Ah… no,” Jon said awkwardly, looking at the floor.

“You should go ask a lady to dance!” Sansa encouraged him, looking around to see whether there were any free ladies nearby. She spotted a very pretty girl with brown hair, probably from the Reach judging by the style of her gown. “Go ask her,” Sansa said with a smile, “remember what I taught you!” she added a little teasingly. Jon was blushing and giving Lord Stannis nervous little looks. Stannis was ignoring him, however, so Jon seemed to decide that he might as well do as Sansa said.

Sansa observed as the girl’s face lit up at being asked to dance by a handsome young knight, and Sansa felt very pleased for Jon. Moments later she realised that she had left herself alone with Lord Stannis and dared a glance at his sour expression, wondering if she should leave him be or try to make conversation.

It would be discourteous to simply walk off without a word, she decided. “Congratulations, my lord,” Sansa said, looking over to the high table where King Robert and Queen Margaery were sitting. Seeing a girl near her own age married to a man her father’s age made Sansa feel very peculiar, but she realised it was important for King Robert to take a young bride so that he would be able to sire trueborn heirs.

Lord Stannis’ scowl deepened and he jerked his head irritably to acknowledge that he had heard her.

“Have you and your wife been enjoying the feast?” Sansa asked, not letting his dour demeanour deter her. 

“My wife has been confined to her chambers,” Stannis said brusquely. He noticed how surprised Sansa was at these news and sighed. “She is with child,” he explained, looking uncomfortable, “and the maesters believe it is in her best interest to rest.”

Sansa nodded, but did not quite understand. Was she very far along? Her mother had usually gone about her duties almost until the birth. She knew that some women were less fortunate and wondered if Lady Selyse was one of them. Was that why Lord Stannis only had one child?

“She is of a sickly disposition,” Lord Stannis explained stiffly, apparently having noticed Sansa’s confusion, “childbearing has never been… easy… on her.”

It would have been more comfortable to look away at that, stare at the wall or at the floor, but Sansa continued to meet Lord Stannis’ eyes, noticing the bitterness they betrayed, and the dull pain.

“But if the maesters are to be believed, she might carry to term if great care is taken,” he finished with a scowl that indicated derision rather than hope.

“Then more congratulations are in order,” Sansa said politely, “I hope she gives you a son.” Judging by the way Stannis’ eyes flashed he hoped so, too. But he only grunted, the flash of hope gone so quickly that Sansa wondered if she had imagined it, a scowl etched into the lines of his face as if it were a permanent feature.

“Well, I shan’t keep you. Have a pleasant evening, my lord,” Sansa said, feeling discomfited by the conversation. She would likely be married soon, and it disturbed her to think that she might be unfortunate like Lady Selyse. She had always pushed the idea away, thinking that she would surely be like her mother - able to successfully bring several healthy children into the world - but there were no guarantees. Her insides writhing uncomfortably, Sansa curtseyed and took her leave of Lord Stannis in order to find her father.

Her mother had been correct about the men at the feast forgetting their manners the more ale and wine they imbibed, and soon Sansa stopped accepting dances. She did not enjoy the way the men grabbed at her clumsily and breathed stale alcohol fumes in her face as they tried to remember the steps to the music. It was almost a relief when the bedding ceremony was to take place and the men were distracted by the idea of pawing at Queen Margaery instead.

Sansa did not attempt to follow the crowd of ladies who surrounded King Robert, hanging back shyly with the the others that had elected to stay out of the bawdy tradition. Bedding ceremonies were fun, though wicked, and if King Robert had been younger and not her father’s particular friend she might have liked to join the crowd of ladies around him. She noted that Lord Stannis and Ser Jon had not felt the need to assist in the bedding of the queen, and she hoped that Robb was not making a fool of himself. She had seen him at the very front of the line, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes bright, shouting ribald remarks with the other men.

As Sansa waited for the revelers to return she did not have the slightest suspicion that she would be in Queen Margaery’s shoes - going through a similar ceremony - within the next three moon turns.

***

“I thought you said you were considering Willas Tyrell for me,” Sansa whispered, feeling cold and numb with the shock of what her father had just told her. She had already painted vivid pictures of herself as Lady of Highgarden in her mind’s eye, and it was difficult to let go of the beautiful vision.

“Your mother and I _were_ considering Lord Tyrell’s offer for you, but King Robert has requested the honour of your hand for his brother, and I cannot deny the king again. Not after I refused his offer to become his Hand and refused the betrothal he had in mind for you and Joffrey. He only barely forgave those slights…” her father said, his tone serious but still sympathetic.

“But Lord Stannis is so _old,_ ” Sansa choked out, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. Queen Margaery had spoken of Highgarden in such a way that Sansa felt like she could close her eyes and actually smell the scent of the roses. Her heartbreak gave her the strength to question her father against her every instinct.

“He is not so very old, and he is an honourable man. Brave and just, too. He will treat you well,” her father said, speaking quietly and shifting from one foot to the other a little uncomfortably.

“I’ve never even seen him _smile,_ Father,” Sansa whispered, giving her father her most pleading look. _Don’t make me do this, father. Please don’t make me._

“He is a severe character, I know,” her father sighed, “but he is not cruel for all his scowls. And Jon would be there at Storm’s End with you.”

Sansa took a deep breath, attempted to swallow the lump in her throat, and tried to think about what her father was telling her rationally. If what he said was true - that the king himself had asked for her hand for Lord Stannis - there really was not much to be done. But the idea of being tied to such a stern, intimidating man was frightening and she could not imagine Lord Stannis being a loving husband. She had not seen much of him since she had gifted him with the favour she had made him. He was always busy, and often sailed to Dragonstone for days on end, but she had seen enough to know that he would not be the kind of husband Willas Tyrell would surely have been.

She knew why it was important for Lord Stannis to remarry quickly. The Lady Selyse had died in the birthing bed and Queen Margaery was still not with child. Lord Stannis was King Robert’s heir and Sansa knew the king was eager to settle the matter of who would inherit if they should both pass away.

Perhaps if she gave Lord Stannis sons he would become less… harsh? Did she dare hope he would grow to love her if she gave him healthy babies?

She looked at her father and tried to appear calm and poised, but her hands were shaking despite her best efforts and her lower lip quivered, betraying her uncertainty and fear. 

_Willas…_

Her father reached for her and wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair and comforting her the way he had occasionally done when she had been very young and upset about some trifle or other.

“It is a great honour to wed the brother of a king, Sansa, and you would be Lady of Storm’s End,” her father said at length, his tone gentle and soothing. “Your wedding ceremony will be held in the Great Sept of Baelor and all the nobles will attend. You will like that, won’t you?”

Sansa pressed herself against her father, inhaling his familiar scent and absorbing his strength, making it her own. 

It did not matter that she was supposed to marry a Florian -- someone brave, gentle and strong. It did not matter that the thought of being left alone in a bedchamber with a man like Lord Stannis Baratheon _terrified_ her. It was her duty to marry, and wedding Lord Stannis _was_ an honour.

Her father continued to hold her, keeping his arms around her for longer than she could ever remember him doing in her life.

“When?” she asked quietly, taking a step back to give her father a steady look, accepting her fate.

Ned closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly. He blew out a quiet, long breath and opened his eyes again to fix his gaze on her in a way that made her stand very still.

“Soon.”

***

The preparations for a second royal wedding feast took a long time, but to Sansa it went by in a blink of an eye. A moon’s turn felt like a week, a week seemed a day.

Lord Stannis had barely spoken to her since their betrothal and Sansa had not felt that it was proper for herself to initiate conversation that she was not certain he would welcome. She remembered how he had reacted when she had given him the handkerchief she had painstakingly embroidered, and as he had not seemed to like it when she had approached him of her own volition, she had decided to let him take the lead. But he had not made a single attempt to get to know her. He had not attempted to take her on a stroll around the gardens, he had not tried to make conversation when he had been obliged to share a meal with her family, and he had restrained himself to the barest of necessary pleasantries when Lady had padded over to him and sniffed at his hands with interest when they had passed each other in the Red Keep.

She did not understand why he was behaving thusly, and as the weeks flew by she became more and more distressed at his indifference. Was he displeased with the match? Did he perhaps not wish to be married again? She could not see how that might be the case, however, as he had no sons. Surely he wanted to wed and produce trueborn heirs? These questions and many others like it tormented her, and she wished she could be like Arya and simply confront him. The very idea terrified her, however, so she had suffered in silence and attempted to distract herself as best she could. There was no shortage of things to do when a royal wedding was on the horizon.

Instead of getting to know her future lord husband, Sansa had spent the time that was not allotted to wedding preparations with her family, with Lady, and even a little time with Queen Margaery and the ladies she surrounded herself with. One of them, Lady Leonette, had been giving her lessons on the high harp; a time consuming but deeply rewarding venture. Sansa knew that Lady Leonette would not leave Queen Margaery to come to Storm’s End with her, but Sansa hoped another skilled harpist might continue her lessons once she had settled there.

***

“Listen to me,” Sansa’s mother said quietly the night before her wedding day, “I know you must be frightened of what will happen tomorrow night.”

Sansa stared at her mother, feeling embarrassed but intensely curious as well. When she had flowered, her mother and Septa Mordane had explained the basics of what would be expected of her once she was a married woman, but Sansa had also occasionally overheard... _things_. Theon Greyjoy, her brothers, and the servants often let things slip that made Sansa think there was a lot more to married life than the woman lying back and allowing the man to place his manhood inside of her to release his seed. Tentative, guilty experiments in the dark of the night had taught her that bundling up her covers between her thighs and rubbing up against them felt lovely, and sometimes made her quite flushed and eager for something _more_ that she didn’t quite understand. Would her mother explain why that was? She’d never dare ask, but she hoped it was something _normal._

“What you must realise is that men are always more frightened of a woman than they would ever care to admit. Lord Stannis will be terrified of you, but he will not want you to know that,” her mother said seriously.

Sansa might have laughed if her mother hadn’t looked so grave. How could someone like Lord Stannis ever be frightened of a slip of a girl that was completely in his power? Sansa didn’t have to ask the question out loud, her mother seemed to see the question in Sansa’s eyes.

“Men respond to their fear in a myriad of different ways. Some turn violent and hurt the women they fear. Some simply hide their fear beneath a mask of false bravado and try to get it over and done with as quickly as they can. The best of them learn how to overcome their fear by talking to the women they lie with and learning that there is nothing to be afraid of,” her mother explained calmly.

Sansa’s heart started to beat very fast at the idea of a Lord Stannis turning violent. She would be helpless to defend herself if he did. She wished she knew him well enough to judge whether he would be the sort of man who would behave brutishly with a lady, but he had barely spoken to her. He was practically a stranger.

“I am certain that Lord Stannis is not the sort of coward who would turn violent,” her mother said reassuringly, likely seeing the panic on Sansa’s face.

“But why would a man ever be afraid of a lady he was about to bed?” Sansa asked, trying to calm herself and think of something other than Lord Stannis hurting her.

“Men are brittle creatures for all their physical strength,” her mother said lightly, an amused smile playing on her lips, “they fear being laughed at, being rejected, being deemed insufficient lovers. Ladies have the power to crush the fragile male ego the moment a lord exposes his manhood in its aroused state.”

Sansa widened her eyes, not fully understanding her mother, but feeling as if she were being let in on an important secret nonetheless.

“You must do your best to guide Lord Stannis into taking the best course of action. Encourage him to talk to you and try to put him at ease,” her mother advised.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to,” Sansa whispered. She was already nervous and afraid of the act she’d be expected to perform and she expected she’d only be more anxious and terrified when the time came to actually _perform it._ Why was it in her hands to put Lord Stannis at ease? Shouldn’t he be the one to put _her_ at ease? He was the more experienced party.

“I know you may think it unfair,” Sansa’s mother said soothingly, having apparently read her thoughts, “but you are stronger than you think, and much stronger than any man placed in your shoes would be.”

“But what if Lord Stannis does not listen to me?” Sansa asked, worrying at her bottom lip and gazing at her mother anxiously.

“It is your duty to obey your husband, but you have everything you need at your disposal in order to _persuade_ him to listen,“ her mother said, placing a heavy emphasis on the word ‘persuade’ and reaching to tuck an errant lock of hair behind one of Sansa’s ears.

Sansa stared at her mother and felt in absolutely no way as if she anything at her disposal. Sansa just felt small and scared and uncertain about her future. It seemed utterly mad that she was to assume the responsibility for making sure Lord Stannis treated her well on their wedding night, while at the same time it was a comfort to think that she might at least have some power in the situation she was about to be in -- as unlikely as that seemed.

“Remember, it is also your duty to bear Lord Stannis’ heirs. To do so you must do your best to make certain that Lord Stannis lies with you often. Putting him at ease right away will help. He will want to return to you sooner if he feels he is welcome.” Her mother looked quite excited at the prospect of Sansa having Lord Stannis’ children, and Sansa felt excited by the notion, too, despite her nervousness and her misgivings.

“It is not enough that he lie with you often, however,” her mother went on, a faint feverish tinge colouring her cheeks, “you must make certain his seed is spent within you and you should never stand up very quickly and allow it all to run back out.”

Sansa knew she was blushing scarlet. This was useful information, and she was eager to hear it, but it all seemed rather scandalous.

Her mother went on for a little while, talking of things that Sansa could barely comprehend, much less keep straight in her mind, but she listened dutifully and tried to fix as much of it as she could in her memory.

Finally it seemed that her mother had no more advice to give. She embraced Sansa, holding her fast and keeping her close for several moments before releasing her and getting to her feet and heading for the door.

“Will it hurt?” Sansa blurted out before her mother reached her destination.

Her mother returned and sat back down, sighing a little and looking a little flushed. Was her mother embarrassed?

“It will hurt less if he takes the time to prepare you first. He was married before so he should know how to do that,” her mother said hesitantly.

“But it will still hurt?” Sansa asked quietly, bracing herself.

“Most likely, yes. The first few times will be uncomfortable and strange for you. But if you make sure to talk to Lord Stannis and put him at ease like I told you, your duty to him as his wife does not have to be unpleasant. You might grow to welcome his attentions if you are successful. It can be… quite lovely. If there is trust and respect between you.”

Sansa wanted to ask about love, about how her mother and her father had been able to find love despite their own political alliance, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. She did not think she could ever love someone as sullen and _old_ as Lord Stannis, and he did not seem like he could ever love _anyone._ She had seen him with his daughter, and he had barely even acknowledged her. And if he could not love his own child, how could he love a new bride? A veritable stranger?

Sansa just nodded, unable to think of any more questions that she dared to ask. This time when her mother stood up to leave, Sansa did not stop her.


	2. A Stark Bride

Selyse was still warm in her grave when his brother decided that Stannis had to remarry as quickly as possible. Stannis expected to be saddled with another Florent or a lady from a house of similar standing. Perhaps he would be able to look forward to a big nose this time around, instead of big ears, or perhaps she would be cross-eyed? Stannis had resigned himself to such a fate, and he told himself it would not truly matter if she would be able to give him a healthy heir. Shireen was precious to him, but a son would bring him a certain peace of mind.

It was strange that Selyse was gone. Stannis had always half expected her to outlive him out of spite. She had never made him happy, and he had not pretended that she had. She was not an attractive woman, but he supposed that could have been overlooked as he was not a handsome man. They suited each other that way. He supposed also that Selyse had done a tolerable job of running Dragonstone as its Lady. She had never been wasteful or frivolous and that had suited him, too. But what Stannis could not overlook was the fact that Selyse had been sickly and frail, unable to bear him a son, and unable to show the daughter she did manage to bring into the world much interest or affection. 

Selyse had brought him no joy, and he doubted he would miss her.

It had come as rather a shock when Robert told him he intended to ask for Sansa Stark’s hand on his behalf. Stannis did not concern himself too much with beautiful ladies since they rarely concerned themselves with him, but he was not _blind._ Robert was going to give him one of the most striking highborn ladies in the Seven Kingdoms.

Of course, he had immediately become suspicious of his brother’s motives. He had not interacted much with the girl beyond accepting the handkerchief she had made for him - a very peculiar event that still unsettled him slightly whenever he thought on it - but she had not _seemed_ like a shrew. Her personality had to be terribly defective in some way, however, since Robert wanted her to become his wife.

It had been too good to be true that Robert would award him Storm’s End after the war and Renly’s death and not attempt to sabotage Stannis’ happiness at finally having his rightful claim recognised. The peace the two brothers had made between themselves while they combined their strengths to deal with the Lannister threat could never have lasted.

The very evening of the day Robert had told him of his plan to make Sansa Stark the Lady of Storm’s End, Stannis had called Ser Jon to his private fireside for their usual evening discourse. The lad had proven himself a loyal and trustworthy friend, and Stannis had never forged such a connection with any other man -- with the notable exception of Ser Davos Seaworth, of course. Both men had saved Stannis’ life, both were honest and hardworking, and both men had been rewarded for their service.

“Tell me everything you know of Sansa Stark,” Stannis commanded once he and Jon had settled themselves into their respective seats by the fire.

“Sansa?” Jon seemed confused, and Stannis supposed it was understandable as the lad did not know what King Robert intended.

“Yes, the girl who gave us these handkerchiefs,” Stannis said, indicating the pocket squares they both carried about at all times. They were of a fine weave, well made, beautifully embroidered, and given freely. Stannis was not a sentimental man, but he recognised objects of high value and tried to treat them well.

“Er, why do you wish to know everything there is to know about my sister?” Jon asked curiously.

“Just tell me,” Stannis snapped impatiently, scowling at the young knight.

“I will, of course, if you want. Though I don’t know why you don’t ask my father or Lady Stark. They know her far better than I,” Jon said calmly.

“That is not your concern,” Stannis said. He did not want to alert Lady Sansa’s parents to the impending proposal before King Robert had a chance to speak to Ned about the matter.

“Sansa is very proper,” Jon began hesitantly, “she has always been very ladylike and gentle. She likes music and sings very well, you know how good her sewing is, and she likes poems and stories about brave knights and fair maidens. Her favourite story is the one about Florian and Jonquil.”

“She sounds empty-headed,” Stannis scoffed.

“Perhaps some might say that, but Sansa has a very good memory for history. She knew almost as much as Robb did about the lineages of all the notable Houses, their sigils and their words, by her tenth nameday, even though she is three years younger than he or I.”

“Go on,” Stannis said, intrigued despite himself.

“She’s usually very kind, though she will lash out with hurtful words if she is provoked.” Jon’s words were accompanied by a bittersweet expression that indicated to Stannis that Jon was recalling some particular memory of Sansa being provoked to say something hurtful. Stannis wanted to ask, but he knew how sibling rivalries could be sore subjects, and he imagined they might be all the more sore when one was a bastard.

“She asked me to write to her when I left to be your squire,” Jon said with a lopsided smile, “wanted me to tell her all about what sort of gowns southron ladies wore, and relate to her the news from King’s Landing.”

“And did you?” Stannis asked, raising an eyebrow. He could not really picture his once gangly squire describing gowns to his sister.

“I did my best, though I’m afraid I have always been rather a disappointment to Sansa when it comes to fashion.”

They lapsed into silence. Speaking of Sansa seemed to have left Jon in a good mood as he was smiling to himself and looking pleased. Stannis was forced to conclude that it was unlikely that Sansa Stark had a severely flawed personality. It would have been impossible for her to hide such a thing from a brother, and the fact that Jon seemed so fond of her spoke well of her character.

What was Robert playing at, then? It seemed impossible that his brother would want to gift him with a beautiful, kind, gentle lady of impeccable breeding and high birth without there being some sort of _hilarious_ joke at his expense involved. Was it simply the fact that marrying Sansa would make Ned Stark his good-father? Was that _amusing_ enough for Robert?

He ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that arose when he considered how near perfect a prospect Lady Sansa was, and how decidedly unlikely it was that she would find him to be without fault. He did not delude himself into believing he had the sort of appearance a young lady would fantasise about, and he had not the patience for the courtly manners, simpering pleasantries and romantic gestures young ladies always seemed to want.

A week later, after Robert had successfully asked Ned to gift Stannis with Sansa’s hand in marriage, Jon came to Stannis’ solar with a strange expression on his long face.

“You are to wed my sister.” It was a statement, not a question, but Stannis nodded nonetheless.

“You knew, didn’t you? That’s why you asked me to tell you about her the other night.”

“Robert told me he intended to ask your father to give her to me. I did not know whether Ned would accept the proposal.”

Jon huffed out a scornful breath. “How could he not?

“Your father refused King Robert when he was asked to become Hand, and he refused to betrothe Sansa and Joffrey.”

“That was different. You, yourself, advised him to refuse the offer!”

Stannis clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar ache of the overused muscles, and glared at Jon. “Did you come here with some purpose? I do have letters to write, you realise.”

“I just wanted to know if it was true. If you really intend to marry her.”

“I will do as my king commands, ser,” Stannis bit out, feeling suddenly as if Jon were somehow judging him unworthy and bitterly resenting the notion. He was the brother of a _king_. He was not handsome or young, but he was _worthy_ of a bride like Sansa Stark. By rights, she was the sort of wife he should have had from the start.

“Of course, _my lord,_ ” Jon said coolly, turning on his heel and striding from the room.

The sinking feeling Stannis was still resolutely ignoring intensified, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Sansa herself judged him unworthy, too.

***

As the day of his second wedding drew nearer, Stannis noticed that Lady Sansa made no effort to speak to him. She had conversed with him at least twice before their betrothal was announced, so he had to assume she was displeased with the match. The very thought of it was infuriating. Who was she to be displeased with _him?_ He was a high lord -- brother to the king! She was of very noble birth, certainly, but she should be _honoured_ to wed him. If Queen Margaery failed to produce sons, Lady Sansa might become queen one day, or at least the mother of a king. Was that not worth a little effort on her part?

It mattered not. She would be his wife before long, and she’d be required to tolerate his company then. He would not chase after her and inflict his clearly unwanted presence on her.

Stannis busied himself with various matters that would allow his upcoming stay at Storm’s End to be a long one. He even sailed to Dragonstone for a few days to see if there were any matters he needed to settle there. He doubted there was anything too important for him to deal with, however, as Ser Davos was there, serving as his castellan. If Stannis were to be completely honest with himself, he mostly sailed to Dragonstone to gain his friend’s advice.

It probably would have taken him a while to work towards the subject of his upcoming wedding and his new bride, but Davos made it easy by asking Stannis about his thoughts on the matter once they had finished discussing Dragonstone and the castle’s upkeep.

“How are you coping with the wedding preparations?”

“Robert is insisting on serving dishes from every corner of Westeros and Essos besides,” Stannis grumbled.

“Such things are expected at a royal wedding feast, aren’t they?” Davos asked in his gruff voice, his Fleabottom accent still noticeable even after all these years.

“Wasteful extravagance.”

“Does Lady Sansa agree?”

“I don’t know. I’ve barely spoken to her.”

“Really?” Davos raised his eyebrows and blinked at him.

“She’ll most likely be stuck with me for a long time. I haven’t felt the need to impose on her last days of freedom,” Stannis muttered darkly, scowling at the floor. The sinking feeling was his constant companion these days, and he was convinced that Lady Sansa resented being made to wed him. She obviously wanted a brave, handsome young knight, not an old lord with hardly a comely feature.

“So you will practically be strangers on your wedding day? Is that your plan?” Davos sounded bemused, now.

“It’s common for that to be the case,” Stannis said stiffly.

“It might be common, but I doubt it will make for a very comfortable wedding night,” Davos pointed out.

“She is very young,” Stannis said, “undoubtedly a maiden.”

“And so you think the wedding night will be uncomfortable whether you get to know her or not?” Davos surmised.

Stannis crossed his arms and gave his friend a hard look. _Yes, that was what he thought._

“Well, I’m not very experienced when it comes to these matters, but my guess would be that building a little trust before you take her maidenhead could hardly make things _worse._ ”

Stannis grunted in response, not wishing to share his thoughts on the matter. He happened to disagree with Davos. Building trust before he was required to do to Sansa what he had done to Selyse all those years ago wouldn’t be of any use. It would only make it worse when he was forced to hurt her. The thought of Lady Sansa looking at him with trust in those innocent blue eyes and have that same trust be shattered when he’d be obliged thrust his way through the barrier between her legs was repugnant to him. He’d rather try to build trust after that particular act of violation was over and done with.

If she would let him.

“She’s going to hate me,” Stannis said quietly, staring at the floor.

“Why do you say that?” Davos sounded surprised.

Stannis gave Davos an incredulous look. Surely he _knew?_ Surely he knew how awful a woman’s first time was?

Davos seemed to read Stannis’ thoughts. “She’s not going to hate you for doing your duty. She’s a highborn lady, isn’t she? She’ll have been told what to expect.”

“Selyse hated me.”

“I don’t know about that. She seemed like a complicated woman to me.”

Stannis just grunted. Selyse had perhaps not exactly hated him, and he had not exactly hated her, but there had been no love lost between them and they had been about equally capable of making each other miserable. Still, when she had died he had felt a sense of loss; for her, and for the tiny babe she had died trying to carry to term. It had not been very difficult to move on, however, as he was used to death and knew how to move past the Stranger’s frequent visits.

It had been hard to see Shireen’s grief. He did not understand why his daughter mourned her mother the way she did. Selyse had never been a very kind mother to Shireen, after all. But he recalled the pain of losing his own parents, and did not try to prevent his daughter from expressing her sorrow. She had returned to Storm’s End shortly after the funeral, claiming to miss Edric and Patches, and would not be returning to attend the wedding. Stannis hadn’t felt the need to uproot her as she would meet Lady Sansa when he brought her to his keep.

“Just… try to be kind to her. I know it’s not always possible to make a woman’s first time anything approaching pleasant, but you can hold her afterwards and make sure she knows you appreciate her.”

Stannis stared at his friend. “Hold her?” _Would she want him to do that?_

“Trust me. She’ll want holding.”

Stannis continued to gaze at Davos with suspicion and scepticism.

“Women generally like being held. It will be a pleasant reward for what she will have given you,” Davos awkwardly explained, his cheeks reddening.

“Selyse never wanted me to,” Stannis muttered mutinously, crossing his hands over his chest and scowling.

“Did you ever offer?” Davos asked shrewdly, raising an eyebrow.

Stannis dropped his arms and blinked a few times, thinking it over. He could not recall ever offering to hold Selyse after they had done their duty. She was usually anxious for him to get off her and leave her in peace. Would she have wanted him to hold her on their wedding night? Would things have been different between them if he had offered to do so then?

Somehow he doubted it.

“I thought not,” Davos said at length, when Stannis failed to answer. “If you truly wish to make a success of your second marriage, I really think you ought to hold her. It may seem trivial to you, but I’m told it can mean the world to a frightened young girl,” Davos said steadily, meeting Stannis’ eyes and smiling in a way that made Stannis wonder if Davos was repeating something a woman had told him. Lady Marya, perhaps?

Stannis nodded jerkily to let Davos know he had been heard and then hastened to change the subject to ship repairs.

Upon his return to King's Landing, a scarce few days before the wedding was to take place, Ser Jon approached him for the first time since they had discussed Stannis' upcoming wedding. Jon apologised for being distant and asked if he might join Stannis for their usual evening talk that night. Stannis agreed to it, trying not to show his relief at being back in the lad's good graces. Even if it was Jon who ought to be relieved that Stannis was not angry about his disrespectful behaviour, really.

Jon’s reaction to Stannis’ upcoming wedding made Stannis wonder what Ned Stark must think. Jon took after Ned, and if he had struggled with the idea of Stannis taking Sansa as his bride, must not her father have struggled with it? Ned had not conversed with Stannis since the betrothal, which had not really surprised Stannis as they had never had a particular rapport, but Stannis had always believed there existed a mutual respect between them. Ned was an honourable man and Stannis had thought that Ned considered him to be an honourable man, too. The idea that Ned might not like that Stannis was to become his good-son chafed in a way that the idea of Sansa herself being displeased with him did not. She was a slip of a girl with her head full of romantic notions. She might grow out of it, given time. Ned Stark, on the other hand, was a high lord, fully grown and set in his ways; his opinion would be unlikely to change once he had formed it.

Was Ned avoiding Stannis in an attempt to conceal his dislike of the match Robert had insisted on? If so, it was an intolerable slight. 

Stannis spent most of his afternoon in a foul mood, brooding over Ned’s behaviour and analysing their every interaction since the betrothal. There was not much for him to analyse as their interactions had been few and brief, but he went over every detail in his mind’s eye, again and again.

When evening fell and Jon arrived, Stannis attempted to put his thoughts about Ned aside in order to focus on his son and the news he brought with him. Thankfully, there was no awkwardness when Jon took his usual seat and started to update Stannis on what he had missed while he had been away. It was as if they had not argued at all.

They discussed many matters, but Stannis took the greatest note of the news Jon had regarding Lord Baelish. Apparently the odious man was acting as suspicious as ever, but Jon had still not been able to find any evidence to support their theory that he had somehow been involved in Jon Arryn's murder. Stannis had assumed that Cersei had been behind it, but she had never owned to it. Not even after she had confessed to her other crimes. This had nagged at Stannis and caused him to cast about for new suspects. Baelish was one of the top three.

Right before Jon usually left, Stannis noticed a shift in the younger man’s mood. He had a feeling Jon was about to bring up the subject of his sister.

“I know it’s not really my concern, but I hoped…” Jon trailed off and took a deep breath, “I hoped you might attempt to treat Lady Sansa as kindly as you are able.” Jon met his eyes steadily, but Stannis could see him swallow nervously, and his hands were balled into fists.

Stannis nodded slowly and observed as Jon visibly relaxed.

He wondered what had motivated the lad to ask for such a thing. Did he think Stannis would be cruel to a lady unless a man half his age instructed him not to? He almost scoffed, but resisted the impulse. Davos had suggested he make an effort at kindness, too.

He very much doubted that being as kind as he was able and holding Lady Sansa the way Davos had instructed would be enough to keep her from resenting him as Selyse had. Sansa would most likely end up hating him regardless, and all this blather would be moot. He had always been able to tolerate how Selyse disliked him easily enough, but would he be able to stand seeing Sansa’s eyes turn cold and bitter? Would he be able to stomach seeing her pretty face twisted up into a sneer at the sight of him? The familiar sinking feeling came back as he imagined it, though perhaps it had never left.

The thought of Lady Sansa heaving a sigh, disrobing mechanically and refusing to look at him as he did his duty was enough to make him grind his teeth in despair.

He did not want that again.

But how could he prevent it from happening?

“Do you think,” Stannis asked after a lengthy silence, “that your sister will be able to… accept me?”

Jon had clearly been on the verge of getting up to go, but he sat back into his seat and considered the question carefully before replying.

“Sansa will try to see your best qualities. Let her see them and treat her with kindness and I think she will try to be an affectionate wife.”

Stannis wondered what having an affectionate wife would be like and drew a blank. He could imagine what it would be like in public based on his memories of how his mother and father had behaved, and he supposed Catelyn and Ned Stark were a living example, but in private? He could not even imagine.

He’d heard enough bawdy stories from Robert, the knights in his service and the soldiers he had fought with to know that there were things one could do with a woman that were apparently very entertaining and satisfying, but he couldn’t really see those sorts of things happening with a _wife._ Even an affectionate one.

Perhaps an affectionate wife would enjoy kissing? He had seen the way some couples kissed and wondered what it might be like -- with Selyse he had only ever shared perfunctory pecks when the occasion seemed to warrant it.

“You may go, Ser Jon,” Stannis said distractedly, still pondering whether he ought to attempt to kiss Sansa the way he had seen some men kiss their lovers.

She’d probably hate it.

Jon stood up and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the door handle. “She’s a sweet girl, Lord Stannis. Try not to hurt her.” Jon did not seem to expect an answer as he left as soon as he had spoken, abandoning Stannis to his inner turmoil.


	3. Wedded

Sansa spent her wedding day feeling as if she were under water. She drifted along, not really hearing the cacophony of sounds that came with such a huge event. Two royal weddings in less than three months… _The dressmakers must all be thrilled._

The Great Sept of Baelor made Sansa feel small and weak in the face of the gods. It was unnerving rather than exciting to be the centre of attention, and she felt the eyes of the gathered crowd on her almost as a physical weight pressing down on her chest. She made sure her posture was beyond reproof as Septa Mordane was watching, and she was glad of her beautiful gown as she could pretend that all those lords and ladies were simply admiring the abundance of silk, satin and Myrish lace. She wore the Stark colours, of course, snowy white and dove grey, and the cut of the dress was more elegant than any dress she had ever worn before. Her mother had insisted on selecting only the finest fabrics and she had handpicked the ivory lace for the trimmings herself. Her smallclothes, too, were the finest she had ever worn; made of silk entirely. 

Her heart sped up as she caught a glimpse of Lord Stannis standing near the High Septon and thought about the fact that Stannis might see her smallclothes -- if they survived the bedding ceremony. To prevent herself from blushing she pushed the thoughts away. She made herself focus on what Lord Stannis was wearing instead. He usually wore such plain clothes so it was odd to see him bedecked in finery. Even so, the finery was quite understated for such an occasion. He wore a black doublet of costly velvet, but there hardly any decorative details -- no scrollwork, no ostentatious jewellery, nothing that glittered or pleased the eye. His tall boots were polished to a mirror shine, however.

When she was close enough to examine his expression, she was surprised to find him grimacing, his jaw working furiously. This confused her as she knew she had never looked as beautiful as she did at the present moment. Her auburn hair was braided elaborately -- though a few locks were unbraided and artfully curled into ringlets instead, her fine gown was laced tightly to show off her narrow waist, and the full skirts worked together with her tall frame to give her a regal bearing. For all her nerves she was _proud_ of her appearance, and she had hoped for a look of appreciation from Lord Stannis when he saw her. Instead he was avoiding her eyes, grimacing and standing so stiffly that it seemed to Sansa that his spine might snap at any moment.

When the time came for Lord Stannis to take away her beautiful maiden’s cloak and place the cloak of his protection around her shoulders instead, Sansa remembered with a pang her childhood dreams about her tall, strong betrothed kissing her cheek tenderly as he fastened the clasp. Lord Stannis was tall and strong, but he did not attempt to kiss her as he mechanically fastened the golden clasp of the Baratheon cloak about her neck. He still had not met her eyes.

She had always thought she would feel happy on her wedding day; that she would revel in the attention and enjoy bringing honour to her family. It all seemed stupid now. She was being given to a cold, harsh man who had not taken a single step to get to know her since their betrothal, and all the honour in the world could not make up for the empty feeling that existed where her happiness should have.

Sansa refused to let bitterness take hold of her as the septon droned on, choosing to take comfort in the presence of her parents and siblings. Her brothers and her sister were all dressed up and behaving themselves. Arya was even looking almost like a lady and wearing a pretty silk gown! Robb and Bran looked handsome, and Rickon was quiet and wide-eyed. Her father looked solemn and serious, and her mother stoic, though Sansa thought she saw a poorly hidden look of triumph in her eyes. She couldn’t really read the expression on Jon’s face, but there was something in his gaze that told her he was struggling with some conflicting emotions.

Sansa was wondering how her mother had convinced Arya to don such a delicate gown when Lord Stannis leant down to kiss her chastely, and not even the strange feeling of his surprisingly soft thin lips on hers could wipe away the gentle smile the thoughts of Arya and her gown had conjured. Lord Stannis gave her a piercing, searching look when he stepped back, his dark blue eyes slightly narrowed, a suspicious scowl dragging the corners of his lips downwards. It was the first time since she had entered the sept that he looked at her directly, but his eyes did not help Sansa understand anything about what he might be thinking.

Sansa was starting to worry that failing to get to know Lord Stannis might have been a mistake. She wanted to think that she was not to blame for the mistake, but was that entirely true? Should she have attempted to approach him despite what decorum dictated? Had she somehow made it difficult for him to spend time with her? Her insides writhed at the thought of sharing a wedding bed with a veritable stranger and she knew that if she allowed herself to dwell on it she would not get through the feast. She therefore put it aside and tried to focus on the challenges she would have to face before the bedding ceremony. Sitting next to him at the high table at the wedding feast would be awkward as they had not learnt how to talk to each other, and Sansa had no idea what he expected of her at the feast. Would he want to dance with her? Would he mind if she danced with other men? Did he want her to remain by his side the whole evening, or was she free to talk to her siblings, Queen Margaery or anyone else?

Should she ask him?

Lord Stannis did not really look like he was in the mood to answer any questions.

Once the ceremony had come to an end, King Robert approached them. He looked to be in high spirits. Queen Margaery was nearby, but just as Sansa did, she stayed back while the king spoke to his brother.

“Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, brother!” King Robert was clapping Lord Stannis on the back and looking very cheerful. “Who would have thought it a year ago? The two of us starting over with blushing young brides!” he exclaimed and started to laugh uproariously -- as if he had just told the world’s finest joke. Lord Stannis did not look amused. Sansa had never seen him look amused.

“I suppose you will want to take her to Storm’s End as soon as possible? Get started on those heirs?” King Robert asked, wiping a tear of mirth from one eye.

“I have lingered in King’s Landing for much longer than I originally planned due to Lady Selyse’s confinement, her death and now this farcical wedding. I plan to leave as soon as my things can be packed,” Lord Stannis said coldly, “and Shireen is my heir,” he added after a few beats, glowering at the king.

Sansa felt an uncomfortable pressure inside her chest as if someone had reached inside her and squeezed her heart. Her husband thought their wedding a farce? Did none of this hold any meaning for him? Had he been ignoring her since their betrothal because he regarded her with derision?

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s all there is to it,” King Robert chortled, winking at Sansa. She felt warm blood rush to her face and ducked her head. She disliked how the king was openly talking of such _private_ matters. But she supposed nothing was private for her now. Sansa’s children would be in line for the throne. Her sons would be behind any sons Queen Margaery might bring into the world, but they would still have a place in the succession. Her womb practically belonged to the Seven Kingdoms.

“It does my heart good to know that the Lady of Storm’s End will be a Stark by birth,” the king said, sounding maudlin all of a sudden, “it’s how things should have been…”

“Seven hells, Robert,” Lord Stannis said with a grimace, “how much wine have you had today?”

“Hardly any! But the night is young!” the king seemed to be back to his cheerful self, grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s still day,” Lord Stannis grumbled.

Sansa almost let out a nervous giggle, but she contained herself. It wasn’t funny, really.

***

There were not quite as many exotic dishes at Sansa’s wedding feast as there had been at the feast for the king and queen, but it was still plenty to be getting along with. Lord Stannis glared at every new dish that was brought before them and occasionally Sansa thought she could hear him mutter things like: ‘wasteful’ and ‘absurd’.

As the evening wore on and fresh courses finally stopped arriving, Sansa began to feel restless. But before she had worked up the courage to ask Lord Stannis whether he minded her stretching her legs, he stood up and offered her his arm. She took it gingerly - still a little unused to touching him - and he started to lead her around the room so that they might greet their guests. Sansa noticed nearly at once that her husband did not seem to be greeting the most important people in the room first, and she also noticed that Lord Stannis was abrupt to the point of rudeness even with the most noble of people. It made her feel a little better about how he spoke to her.

After keeping silent through the first three or four conversations Lord Stannis had with old lords, Sansa tentatively began to attempt to make up for her husband’s lack of courtesy. He gave her a startled, irritated look the first time she tried it, but the lord they were talking to responded with great enthusiasm and he and Lord Stannis ended up prattling on about ships, trade routes and taxes for positively _ages._ It was horribly boring, but Sansa tried to pay attention as best she could.

They had moved on to speaking to another lord about other equally uninteresting things when Lady Olenna Tyrell came by.

“I won’t mince words, I’m here to steal your lovely bride away. I doubt she’s very interested in whatever it is that you two are boring her with,” the old lady said decisively, already walking off and indicating that Sansa should follow.

Sansa gave Lord Stannis a wide-eyed look. Was she allowed to go?

Her husband scowled and looked at the ceiling for a brief moment as if to say that he really didn’t care. Sansa didn’t wait to find out if she was interpreting him correctly and took off after Lady Olenna with all due haste.

“My granddaughter wanted to talk to you,” Lady Olenna said as they made their way across the hall to where Queen Margaery and her ladies were standing and giggling at a nearby fool, “but I would like to say a few words, too.”

“I’m listening, my lady,” Sansa said softly, giving Lady Olenna her full attention.

“You realise, I hope, that you and my granddaughter are both under an enormous amount of pressure to produce male heirs for your husbands,” the old lady said as if she were commenting on the weather, “you are of course under less pressure than poor Margaery, but the fact remains.”

Sansa nodded to signal her understanding, wondering why Lady Olenna had brought the subject up.

“It would be prudent of you to refrain from upstaging my granddaughter,” Lady Olenna said mildly, but with a Valyrian steel edge to her words.

It was difficult for Sansa to keep from gaping at the older woman. How on earth was Sansa supposed to ‘refrain from upstaging’ Queen Margaery? It was her duty as Lord Stannis’ wife to bear his children and give him heirs. The king himself expected her to have Lord Stannis’ babies. Sansa understood that children with Stark and Baratheon blood would help strengthen the ties between the north and the Iron Throne, just as Queen Margaery’s children would strengthen the ties with the Reach and Highgarden. How could Lady Olenna ask her to disregard her duty and the king’s wishes? It was outrageous.

“I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure that your husband does not bed you during the middle of your cycle.”

They reached Queen Margaery and her ladies at this point, and Sansa could not think to do anything except avoid Lady Olenna’s eyes and try to keep herself calm. She doubted she would be able to prevent Lord Stannis from bedding her - in the middle of her cycle or at any other time - but she could not exactly start an argument with a woman of Lady Olenna’s position. Thankfully she did not seem to require a response and walked off as soon as Margaery acknowledged Sansa’s presence.

Queen Margaery greeted Sansa with apparent delight, inviting her to watch the fool with her and the other ladies and promising that a troupe of mummers would be performing soon. Sansa wondered if Margaery knew anything about what Lady Olenna had said to her, but could not quite picture it. Queen Margaery had always been sweet and kind towards Sansa, and what Lady Olenna had asked of Sansa had been strange and cruel. Sansa was almost certain that Margaery had nothing to do with it. Once everyone was absorbed in watching the fool, Queen Margaery started a whispered conversation with Sansa.

“Are you nervous about later?”

“A little.” _A lot._

“I’m sure Lord Stannis will take good care of you. You’re lucky he’s still in such good health.”

“And _you’re_ lucky King Robert is so genial, Your Grace.”

“I’m sure Lord Stannis will be perfectly genial once you are alone.”

Sansa did not know how to answer that without speaking an untruth or being unpardonably rude. They both watched the fool for a little while.

“I know this is a terribly impertinent question, but is your maidenhead intact?” Margaery whispered the question discreetly, but Sansa still blushed and looked around nervously to see if anyone had heard. She knew that it was fairly common for highborn ladies to tear their maidenhead on horseback and told herself that Margaery was asking for that reason. She could not fathom that Margaery might be asking because she thought Sansa had done anything dishonourable. After what Queen Cersei had put the Seven Kingdoms through Margaery had to be aware of how important it was for Sansa, and for Queen Margaery herself, to be beyond reproach.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa said as quietly as she possibly could.

“I thought so,” Margaery said, sounding sympathetic, “Lord Stannis will probably know what to do as he’s been married before, but don’t let him rush you through it. You will need to be prepared.”

Sansa’s mother had said something about being prepared, too, but she had failed to say anything about _how_ these preparation were made. Lord Stannis was supposed to know, and Sansa supposed that was enough, but she was still terribly curious. Perhaps Queen Margaery would tell her a little more?

“Prepared?” Sansa squeaked out nervously.

“Have you ever put on a ring that was too small?” Margaery asked, surprising Sansa with the sudden change of subject.

“Yes?” Sansa said, trying to signal her confusion.

“How did you get it off?”

Sansa was baffled, but she did not dare talk back to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, so she simply tried to recall how she had ended up getting her old ring off after putting it on to see if it still fit.

“At first I tried pulling it off, twisting it around and tugging,” Sansa said, furrowing her brow, “but it just hurt, so I stopped trying. I asked Old Nan to help and she popped my finger into her mouth and sucked the ring off."

Margaery looked very pleased with the story. “The ring came off easily once it got wet and slippery, yes?

“Yes, I suppose it did, Your Grace.”

“Well, when a man lies with a woman he is the finger, and the woman is the ring. Do you follow?” Queen Margaery whispered, a small smile tugging the corners of her mouth upwards.

Sansa felt herself blush furiously, but she understood what the queen meant, so she nodded.

“When a woman is prepared correctly, it makes her wet and slippery and then there is less need for painful ‘twisting and tugging’.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, thinking about how her smallclothes usually became damp when she rubbed up against her bundled up bedclothes in that certain special way. She had always wondered if that was supposed to happen.

“Do you understand?” Margaery asked, raising one eyebrow and still smiling her mysterious little smile.

“Yes, I think so,” Sansa whispered softly, looking at the floor.

“Good. If he tries to start before you feel prepared, ask him to kiss your breasts. Men like doing that, and it will feel good for you.”

If Sansa had been blushing before, she did not know what to call what she was doing now. It felt as if her cheeks were positively _aflame._ What Queen Margaery was suggesting sounded perfectly scandalous! She felt sure that Lord Stannis would think she was indecent if she asked him to do anything like _kiss her breasts._ She could not help but wonder what it might feel like, however, and imagined that warm, soft lips would cause tingling sensations that her own curious fingers would never be able to elicit. Would his beard feel terribly scratchy? It hadn’t really when he had kissed her in the sept, but the skin of her breasts was even more sensitive than the skin of her face...

The troupe of mummers arrived before Sansa could think of anything to say to Queen Margaery’s suggestion, and they both became distracted by a most marvellous, entertaining show. Jeyne joined the crowd and Sansa moved to stand by her, wanting to be near her oldest friend. They were able to have a whispered conversation about their gowns and giggle at how handsome Loras Tyrell appeared, and for a moment Sansa felt almost carefree.

Lord Stannis found her soon after the show was complete, however, ending the lighthearted mood she had managed to find. He surprised Sansa utterly by asking her to dance, and she had to restrain herself to keep from shooting Jeyne and incredulous look. Jeyne knew that Lord Stannis had not spent much time with Sansa during their betrothal, but Sansa had not shared her anxiety about his apparent indifference and she did not want to betray her startlement to either her husband or her friend.

Lord Stannis ground his teeth horribly right after she accepted his offer with every ounce of grace and poise she could muster. He was clearly displeased with the whole idea and as Sansa allowed him to lead her to the dance floor she wondered why he had bothered to ask if he hated it so much.

They danced in silence for several minutes, changing partners at intervals as the choreography dictated, and Sansa was glad to note that Lord Stannis was a competent dancer, if a bit stiff and out of his element. She disliked it when her toes got trampled by men who wanted to dance but barely knew the steps. She also liked the way her husband’s height complemented her own. It was awkward to dance with men who were of a similar height as she was, and quite nearly embarrassing when they were shorter! Most of her partners for this dance were competent and tall, and she would have enjoyed it if it hadn’t been so nerve-racking to be so frequently in close proximity with Lord Stannis.

Sansa used the opportunities the dance afforded her to examine her husband’s face. He was not a terribly attractive man, but Sansa caught sight of Septa Mordane and remembered how she always said that no man was truly ugly. Sansa would simply have to find something about him that she liked, that was all. His face seemed to be made entirely of harsh angles, and his jaw was prominent, square and almost sharp. He was going bald and actually had more hair on his face than on his head. His beard was neatly trimmed, however, and had really not felt too scratchy when he had kissed her in the Great Sept. His eyes were his only truly comely feature; dark blue, full of intelligence and intense ferocity. Sansa told herself that as long as her husband had his eyes she would be able to derive some pleasure from looking upon him. She had tried to examine him discreetly, but his scowl made her think that he noticed and disliked her scrutiny.

“You appear to be on good terms with Queen Margaery,” Lord Stannis remarked sullenly.

“She has been very kind to me,” Sansa said, meeting her husband’s eyes briefly before looking downwards, focusing on his jaw instead.

Lord Stannis grunted and scowled more deeply.

“I wish for you to stay by me for the rest of the evening,” he said sternly when the song they were dancing to was about to end. He shot a glare at Queen Margaery and the group of ladies that surrounded her, and Sansa wondered if he had disliked the fact that she had been one of them before he had asked her to dance.

“Of course, my lord,” Sansa said, resigning herself to listening to more boring conversations about taxes and attempting to hide her disappointment with a small smile.

It was not so very bad to be in Lord Stannis’ company, however. He did scowl quite a lot, and he didn’t really spare her a kind word, but he did not try to stop her from practising her courtesies with the people he wanted to speak to, nor did he talk over her. He also led her over to her parents, staying near them for a long time and giving her ample opportunity to enjoy their familiar presence. She could tell that her husband was not overly fond of her father, so she appreciated the gesture all the more for it. Was he attempting to show her some concern or was she reading too much into his actions? Hope swelled inside of her at the idea of him trying to make this evening a little easier on her, and the smiles she gave him suddenly felt a lot less forced.

It was late when King Robert - obviously deep in his cups - started shouting about a bedding in his booming voice. Sansa had been standing with Lord Stannis and talking to Jon, but as soon as she heard the bedding ceremony mentioned she felt the blood drain from her face. Unconsciously, she stepped closer to her husband, seeking the protection his tall, broad frame afforded.

“Do they have to?” she heard herself say, feeling nervous and very aware of all the eyes that were suddenly on her, the hands that were reaching for her, and the ribald japes she could already hear. She had imagined her bedding ceremony often, and it had not frightened her then, but her visions of it had always been full of familiar, friendly faces. Could she trust all these rowdy, unfamiliar lords?

“I doubt my brother will want to break with tradition,” Lord Stannis said bitterly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and glaring at the ground.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you,” Jon promised, placing himself in between Sansa and the approaching crowd. Sansa highly doubted that Jon would be able to stand between her and a crowd of drunken men led by King Robert himself, but she felt comforted by his words nonetheless. She wished her father were near, too. Surely her father would be able to exert some control over his friend the king? But Ned Stark was nowhere to be seen, and all too soon Sansa was being lifted from the ground despite Jon’s loud protests.

She felt a little better when she noticed that the hands grasping her were quite gentle and saw that Loras Tyrell was among the men closest to her. Seeing him smile handsomely at her made her blush and her heart started to beat fast for an entirely new reason. Perhaps this would be a little exciting and wicked just as she had always thought it would be?

Someone pulled at the delicate laces of her gown, undoing them and allowing the beautiful fabric to be peeled away from her body. She shivered and let out an embarrassed squeak. They would see her shift!

“She’s a pretty little one! She’ll have a job prying Lord Stannis from between her legs after the hag he was shackled to all those years!” someone shouted, making everyone laugh.

“You’re just jealous!” she heard herself retort, her heart in her throat. It was scandalous to say such things; scandalous and very wicked. It was expected of the bride to answer back, however, and knowing it helped her get the words out.

There was even more laughter after she had spoken, and Loras _winked_ at her.

Someone pushed her skirt up, pulled at her stocking, and tickled one of her calves, making her yelp and giggle nervously. No one had _ever_ touched her in such an improper manner.

“Ooh, so soft! Smooth as a baby’s bottom!”

Most of her dress was gone now, and she was sure the men would be able to see her breasts through her thin shift. She couldn’t help it; she tried to cover herself with a free hand, feeling terribly shy.

“Look at those teats!”

“Seeing that pair is sure to put a smile on even Lord Stannis’ sour face!”

She wondered if that were true and without really thinking it through she was responding to the man who had shouted. “If seeing them doesn’t do the trick, perhaps touching them will?” she said sweetly, causing everyone to roar with laughter. Sansa grinned, feeling delightfully pleased with herself.

Someone was pulling at her shift, and she felt dismayed when she heard it tear. It was of such fine quality that it was a shame to destroy it. Her skin broke out into goosebumps as chilly air came into contact with it and she shivered uncomfortably. 

“I know this is all very exciting, my lords, but please do try to keep from tearing my clothes,” she scolded, adopting a tone of voice Septa Mordane usually used with Arya, “the fabric was very costly.”

There was more laughter at this, and some of the men who had not taken part in tearing her shift continued to scold those who had, calling them silly and rude names.

She could feel her shift slipping and knew it would not stay on much longer. Hopefully they were close to the chamber where she was to spend her wedding night. _Where is Jon?_ she thought, trying to find him in the crowd.

When the men managed to get the torn material the rest of the way off, exposing her nearly completely, there was a loud cheer and a lot of wolf-whistling. Sansa was modestly shielding her breasts from view as best she could, but there was still quite a lot of her flesh on display. Was it possible to blush with one’s entire body? It certainly felt like it was. She could hear King Robert’s booming, drunken laugh, and she felt very odd about her king seeing her in such a state. Still, it was rather thrilling, too, to have all these eyes on her, many of them looking like they thought she was very desirable, and the knowledge that she was about to be bedded by a man made it all the more exhilarating.

All she had left to cover her most private parts were her silken smallclothes, and someone was already tugging on them. She hoped that meant they were getting close to the wedding bed, because she was not sure if she would be able to conceal both her breasts and her red curls with her hands if it came to it.

“It’s a shame to waste such a pretty lady on _Stannis_. Can’t we find her someone young and handsome for her to begin with? I’ve always been considered quite the looker, you know!” a man she didn’t recognise shouted, his words a little slurred.

“You? You look like a horse’s arse!” Loras Tyrell said, mirth in his eyes.

Everyone laughed loudly again, and Sansa couldn’t help but giggle at the offended look on the first man’s face.

The sound of a heavy wooden door being opened signalled that they had arrived at their destination.

As the men carried her into the bedchamber, someone succeeded in tearing her smallclothes away. Sansa was not quick enough with her hands and most of the men nearest to her definitely _saw._

There was a deafening roar of approval. “The carpet matches the drapes!”

This upset her, and she struggled to keep from shouting some very unladylike things at the rude men.

Jon had finally fought his way to her, however, and he pushed the men that had been carrying her off and covered her in a sheet he must have picked up from the large bed at the centre of the room. There was a chorus of boos as Jon helped her sit on the bed.

“We’ve finished our job, the ceremony is over. We should all get out before the ladies arrive with Lord Stannis,” Jon said, surprisingly authoritatively. Sansa had never heard him sound quite so sure of himself.

“Aye, the lad’s right. And my cup is empty!” King Robert shouted. “Back to the feast!” he added in his booming voice, leading the rowdy men back out of the dimly lit chamber. 

Jon lingered a little while longer. “Are you well?” he asked gently, looking at her with concern in his familiar grey eyes.

Sansa took a deep, steadying breath and let it back out slowly. She had not meant to let herself become upset. She had known to expect the bedding ceremony, and she knew it was all a game. But it had not felt nice to have all these strange, leering men see her without her smallclothes on and comment on the colour of her curls. She was still shaking with embarrassment, but partly with excitement as well.

“I will be, thank you. You should leave before the ladies get here with Lord Stannis,” she said, trying to be courteous, but wanting Jon to leave her alone to compose herself.

Jon walked to the door but hesitated before leaving her. “I asked Lord Stannis to be kind to you,” he said quietly, giving her a serious, worried look, “I hope you will be kind to him, too.”

Sansa gave her bastard brother a wide-eyed stare, tugging her sheet closer. Jon gave her one of his crooked smiles in his turn and hurried out the door just as the noise of a largely female crowd could be heard approaching.

As she listened to the ladies draw nearer Sansa thought of her own Lady, her direwolf, and wished that she and her siblings had been allowed the company of their familiars during the feast. Lady would have made her feel ever so much braver, she was sure.

It was useless to think of such things, however, and Sansa tried to focus on collecting herself so that she would be able to face Lord Stannis with some dignity. She touched her face to determine whether she was still blushing very hotly, and took several more deep breaths. Perhaps she would be a little less red by the time Stannis arrived if she just focused on breathing...

Sansa was surprised at the state Lord Stannis was in when the ladies at the front of the group shoved him through the door. Queen Margaery herself was occupied with pulling at the knots on the laces that held his breeches closed, and his chest was quite bare -- if one discounted the dark hair that covered it. The look on his face was utterly indignant.

“Get off, woman,” Stannis growled, “we’re here.”

Queen Margaery looked amused, but she did as Lord Stannis asked, taking a step back from him. “So we are,” she said with a small giggle, “have fun, you two!”

With that the door to the chamber was shut, and Sansa was left alone with one very disheveled and disgruntled Lord Stannis Baratheon.


	4. ... and Bedded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.
> 
> Some parts of this chapter may be triggering. (According to modern standards this chapter contains statutory rape. And according to all standards it's not going to be flowers and rainbows.)
> 
> Aspects of the bedding were inspired by linndechir's [Wedding.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/362590) It's a story I've read too many time to count and it's the story that got me into the Stannis/Sansa pairing. I highly recommend it.
> 
> I also recommend LionsAndTigers' fic [Making Babies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5770879) which is a tiny little ficlet inspired by some of the comments on this story. It's adorable and you should definitely read it.

Sansa had barely had time to take in her surroundings before Stannis arrived, but she was vaguely aware of the fire in the grate and the lamps that lit the bedchamber. The light was soft, but it allowed Sansa to see her disheveled husband clearly. She could not help but look at the lean form that was exposed to her; the whipcord hard body Lord Stannis usually hid under his dark doublets. He had the look of a soldier, Sansa thought, taking in the scars and the clearly defined muscles. He was not bulky, but his strength was evident nonetheless. It both frightened and excited her, and she felt her heart start to beat much too fast beneath her breast.

There wasn’t really anywhere to sit except on the large bed, so Lord Stannis padded over to her - his boots were gone - and sat down next to her, leaving plenty of space between them.

There was so much tension in his shoulders, his neck and his jaw that Sansa was surprised he was able to open his mouth to speak.

“The men… they were not too rough?” he asked gruffly.

She wondered if she was still very flushed and noticed how his eyes lingered on the sheet Jon had wrapped around her. She imagined that he was trying to figure out whether she had any clothes on underneath it.

“They took all my… I mean... even my smallclothes,” she offered in a nervous whisper, not really knowing how to behave with him now that they were alone and their duty was hanging over them.

“That is usually what happens,” he said, “it’s the whole point of the wretched ceremony.”

Sansa leveled an accusing look at his breeches and Stannis frowned down at them, too.

He cleared his throat and looked straight ahead instead of at her. “But you are unhurt?” he asked.

“Yes, I - I suppose I am,” Sansa stammered, feeling more confident for having said it out loud. She _was_ unhurt. A little shaken and embarrassed, but not injured. It calmed her to think of it that way, and she relaxed her posture, straightened out a little and loosened her death grip on her sheet.

“You should lie down, then,” Stannis said with a sigh, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

Sansa tensed up again. Did he intend to start _doing things?_ Right away?

She didn’t move and waited for Stannis to look at her. When he noticed that she wasn’t following his instructions he stopped rubbing his face and glared at her, scowl fixed firmly in place.

She gave him her most imploring look, begging him without words to give her a little more time to get used to the idea of being intimate with him.

“What are you staring at, girl?” he snapped irritably, “lie down.”

Sansa made an involuntary noise that was something between a whimper and a sob and moved to obey, making sure to keep herself covered with her sheet.

What had her mother said? She needed to get him to talk to her. How was she supposed to do that when he was so… disinclined to communicate?

“Please,” she managed, “I don’t know what you expect of me, my lord. Could you possibly explain what you want to start with? I’m - I’m rather nervous.” She continued to give him imploring looks and tried to keep her lower lip from trembling too noticeably.

Stannis looked at the ceiling and grimaced. “Surely you know what is expected of you?”

“I know the basics, my lord,” she whispered. It was strange to converse with him as he sat over her prone form, but she was relieved that he was not lying down yet.

“What do you consider to be the ‘basics’?” Stannis asked, sounding less irritated now and more like he was simply tired.

“I know that - that you will need to - um - well, I know the _procedure,_ ” Sansa mumbled, feeling herself blush hotly, “and I know that I need to be prepared first in some way that no one would really explain to me properly, they just told me that you ought to know what to do.”

Stannis looked vaguely disconcerted and furrowed his brow.

Sansa got the feeling that she was using the wrong words, so she decided to try to make herself more clear. How had Queen Margaery phrased it? “I need to be - um - wet inside?” She paused to gauge Stannis’ reaction to the word she had chosen and was pleased to see that he seemed to understand her now. His eyes had widened a little, at least. “They said I need to be wet so that it won’t hurt me too much,” she finished quietly.

Stannis blew out a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as if the sight of her was causing him some sort of pain.

“If you are truly a maiden this will hurt you whether you’re _prepared_ or not,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “Better to just get it over with.”

Something inside Sansa rebelled at his words. He was _wrong._ It was not better to ‘get it over with’. Getting it over with would _hurt_ her, and Jon said he had asked Stannis to be kind. She needed her husband to be kind to her and he had no reason not to be.

“I am truly a maiden.” Sansa looked up at the harsh angles of her husband’s face and met his eyes. She was so scared of displeasing him, but she had to try to get him to do more for her than he obviously intended. If Lord Stannis was as honourable as everyone said, he would surely not punish her for asking such a small favour? For kindness on her wedding night? “Please, my lord, could we attempt to prepare me nonetheless?” she asked softly, still looking at him steadily. “I would be most grateful,” she added. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she felt like her entire body was pulsing with her heartbeat.

Stannis blinked at her as if she had suddenly started speaking in Old Valyrian.

“Yes,” he said after what seemed like an eternity, “I suppose.”

Sansa closed her eyes and blew out a quiet sigh of relief. She felt the mattress shift as Stannis moved his weight around, lying down next to her. She fought the urge to tense up and tighten her hold on the sheet that covered her. She opened her eyes when she felt that Stannis was leaning his head so that it hovered over her without covering her with his body, too.

He had the most interesting look on his face -- almost as if he were preparing himself for battle by the way he had stubbornly clenched his jaw. But the look in his eyes convinced Sansa that her mother had been right. She could see fear in his eyes, though she could not comprehend what it was that he was afraid of.

“May I kiss you, my lady?” he asked awkwardly, already bracing himself for rejection judging by the grim expression that was now taking over his features.

Sansa understood that she needed to be brave for the both of them now, and that she was required to put him at ease even though she wished he would put her at ease instead.

“You may,” she said, closing her eyes and tilting her chin up in a way she hoped came off as inviting. The kiss they had shared in the Great Sept had not been unpleasant, so it did not frighten her over much to allow him to touch his lips to hers. It was strange to allow him such a thing now that they were mostly undressed and lying in bed, but Stannis did not seem to be about to pin her down with his bulk or anything like that. It would just be a kiss.

Stannis was careful, brushing his lips softly up against her own, tickling her with the soft hairs of his beard and surprising her with how pleasant his breath smelled. She could tell he had not been drinking any wine or ale, and she was very glad of it. Something about her response seemed to encourage him, as he allowed this kiss to linger for a lot longer than the perfunctory kiss in the Sept of Baelor, moving his lips softly over hers and exerting a bit of pressure that actually felt quite nice.

Sansa was just about to try to copy him when he pulled back. She opened her eyes and saw that Stannis was looking down at her with a slightly surprised look on his face, and she was certain that his eyes were somehow darker than they had been a moment ago.

“Thank you,” she breathed, not knowing what else to say.

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, however, as it made Stannis grimace and move to lie on his back beside her.

“You are so young.” He groaned and brought his hands up to rub his face once more.

Sansa felt that this was a peculiar thing to say. “Of course I am, my lord. You need sons.” She tried to speak confidently so that her confusion would not be heard.

Stannis scoffed but did not say anything.

Carefully, holding her sheet in place, Sansa got up on one elbow so that she might look at her husband. “Would you like to kiss me again, my lord?” she asked shyly, not knowing what else to suggest. He moved his hands away from his face and stared at her as if she had started speaking in a foreign tongue again.

“You… want me to?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

Sansa nodded, feeling herself blush. Stannis seemed a lot less frightening when he was kissing her, and the sensation his lips created was not an unpleasant one.

Stannis got up on one elbow, too, mirroring Sansa’s pose. He tentatively reached for her cheek with his free hand and stroked her carefully with his thumb. There was a stubborn expression on his face, almost as if he were daring her to mock him for what he was doing. Sansa would do no such thing, of course -- she was enjoying the gentle movement of his hand on her skin. She let her eyelids flutter closed and leaned into his touch. Some instinct encouraged her to lick her lips, too, and part them slightly. She did not fight the urge and was rewarded with another kiss. It started out similar to the previous one, slow and lingering, but suddenly Stannis ran his tongue over her bottom lip, pushing it inside her mouth through her parted lips so that he could lick at her tongue. An involuntary sound of surprise escaped her, and Stannis pulled away immediately.

He was giving her an angry, almost hurt, look. It reminded her of how Lady sometimes looked at her when Sansa played a game with her where she taunted the wolf with a nice juicy bone only to snatch it away when Lady tried to take it. Did Stannis think she had been objecting to what he had been doing?

“You didn’t have to stop,” she said, sounding strangely breathless to herself, “I - I liked it,” she stammered, blushing more deeply due to her admission.

Her words seemed to smooth away his ruffled feathers, but he looked suspicious and wary again. “You did?” he asked flatly. There was disbelief in his eyes, and his frown was very pronounced.

“Could I - um - could I try?” she asked, hoping to prove her willingness and put him back at ease.

Stannis nodded curtly, and Sansa wasn’t quite sure, but she thought his face was slightly redder than it had been before.

Sansa was getting tired of supporting her weight on her elbow, so she placed a palm on Stannis’ chest to encourage him to lie back. Her heart was beating wildly at the idea of lying half on top of him so that she might kiss him comfortably, but it seemed like the most logical position to assume.

Stannis was _staring_ at her, a small crease between his brows and a baffled, almost miffed, look in his eyes. When she pressed her chest to his - her sheet the only thing coming between them - and reached for his cheek the way he had reached for hers, she saw how his pupils blew out, darkening his blue eyes almost completely. She hoped it was a good sign. 

She took a slightly shaky breath and pressed her lips to his. It was nerve-racking to be in control of the kiss. What if she was doing it wrong?

She tried to copy everything that he had done, even tentatively using her tongue after a while. This made Stannis wrap his arms around her middle, holding her closer in a way that should really have frightened her - he was clearly strong enough to crush her - but actually made her feel rather safe, instead. After all, if he was strong enough to easily hurt her it followed that he was strong enough to protect her from harm, too. And had he not sworn to protect her in the Great Sept of Baelor? He opened his mouth for her and let her explore as she wanted, curling his tongue around hers when she finally worked up the courage to push it inside. The sensation was strange and wet, but it was making her feel increasingly warm and tingly deep down inside. It was… lovely.

When she pulled away so that she would be able to breathe properly she became aware of how her skin was burning all over, and how she trembled with every breath she took. She stared at Stannis, feeling completely astounded at the way her body was behaving.

“My lady,” Stannis said, his voice low and hoarse, “I should like to see you, now.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt more blood rush to her cheeks. She had to be completely crimson.

“Lie back,” Stannis instructed in his raspy whisper. She obeyed without a word, though she looked at him with her eyes wide and her lips parted to let her irregular breaths escape more easily. Allowing him to take her sheet away frightened her, but she felt strangely excited about it, too. What would he think of her? Would he think her beautiful? Would seeing her unclothed make him desire her? Would he remove his breeches, too?

He sat up for the most part, and though he was not standing, it still felt to Sansa as if he were towering over her. His jaw was tightly clenched again, and his eyes were still dark. He sat and watched her for a long time before he slowly reached for the sheet, tugging it away in one smooth motion, revealing her naked form to his eyes.

Sansa hadn’t expected him to do it all at once like that, and she had to resist the urge to cover her breasts and the red curls that grew on her mound with her hands. Without the sheet to keep her warm her skin erupted into gooseflesh, and her nipples stiffened uncomfortably. She shivered and tried to breathe calmly, but having his eyes fixed on her the way that they were made her want to hyperventilate. He was examining her hungrily, hardly blinking at all, and she could see that he was breathing rapidly, too. His throat was moving as if he couldn’t stop swallowing, and she thought she could see his nostrils flaring slightly -- as if he were trying to _smell_ her.

“Do I please you, my lord?” she asked when she finally found her voice.

Stannis closed his eyes then, bringing a hand up to rub his eyelids. “You are beautiful, my lady,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly.

Sansa couldn’t quite believe that such a harsh, unforgiving man could sound so in awe of her, so she just stared at him as he stared at her, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Spread your legs,” he said after a while, and Sansa was _sure_ that his face was redder than usual now.

She slowly did as he asked, wondering at his intentions. He was still in his breeches, so he could hardly mean to start doing his duty quite yet.

At first he did nothing but look, and Sansa felt embarrassed that he was staring so brazenly at her most intimate places. He was her husband, however, and he had the right to look as much as he wanted. She would simply have to tolerate it. It was easier to tolerate it with her eyes closed, so she kept them shut and focused on taking deep, slow breaths.

“I’m going to touch you,” Stannis warned, “to see if you are _prepared._ ”

Sansa was glad that he told her what he was about to do, for she was sure she would have yelped or made some embarrassing noise if he hadn't. His fingers poked at her a little roughly, and it felt like the worst sort of invasion of her privacy.

“Please!” she blurted. “Could you be more gentle, my lord?”

Stannis snatched his hand away. “There’s no point. You’re hardly ready.”

Queen Margaery’s suggestion about asking Lord Stannis to kiss her breasts echoed in her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to put such a scandalous idea into words.

“Might we kiss a little more?” Sansa asked timidly, hoping Stannis would be agreeable. He didn’t say anything, but he stretched out his long body to lie half on top of her, claiming her lips in a sudden, very overwhelming kiss. The feel of his warm chest pressing against her breasts was strange and stifling, but she could not really think about it with his tongue invading her mouth like it was. One of his large hands was resting on her shoulder, his firm grip again making her highly aware of how much and how _easily_ he could hurt her if he took it into his head to do so. But he did not seem so much interested in hurting her as he seemed interested in devouring her mouth with his. He was barely giving her room to breathe and he was starting to make a strange sort of growling sound as he explored every inch of her mouth with his tongue. The hand at her shoulder moved down to grasp one of her breasts roughly, drawing a surprised, slightly indignant noise from her. He did not seem to hear and he continued to knead her breast uncomfortably, moving to pinch her nipple after a little while. The sensation was shocking, and she yelped into his mouth; the sound immediately muffled by his tongue. She had never felt anything that was painful and yet strangely pleasurable at the same time. Was that normal? He pinched her nipple again, pulling on it slightly, and this time she felt a clear jolt of pleasure that seemed to echo deep inside of her, making her feel hot between her legs.

He repeatedly pinched her nipples and fondled her breasts as he kissed her, and the frequent jolts of pleasure were starting to make her want to rub up against something, a strong desire for friction washing over her.

As if he had heard her thoughts, he moved his hand from her breast and down between her legs again. He was gentler this time around, and Sansa was pleased that he had listened to her request. It still felt rather invasive to have his fingers poking around her most private places, but at the same time she _needed_ him to do it. She needed him to press the whole of his large, calloused hand tightly to her so she could rub herself against it and chase that elusive, pleasureable sensation she sometimes found when she rubbed up against her bedclothes on her own.

Stannis started to kiss her neck as he prodded her gently with his fingers, and Sansa could tell that his fingers were now sliding along her folds easily. She had started to become wet. This discovery and the feel of his hot mouth on her neck made her let out a low moan. Stannis responded with a similar noise of his own and he pressed his lower body against her for the first time. Sansa drew in a sharp breath as she felt something very hot and hard against her thigh through the material of his breeches. He was pressing it forward insistently, rubbing himself against her and letting out laboured, ragged breaths.

So quickly that Sansa barely had time to process that he did it, he had discarded his breeches and crawled on top of her. His manhood was between her thighs, touching her where his fingers had been stroking her moments before. It felt much more pleasant than his fingers: warm, round, blunt and _right._

“This will hurt,” he rasped, sounding almost apologetic as he reached down to guide his manhood. 

Sansa looked up at him, and was surprised to see how twisted up his whole face was. His brow was furrowed and he had squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that she could barely see his eyelids. His jaw was clenched, he had bared his teeth in feral sort of snarl, and his nostrils were flaring with each loud breath he took.

She felt sorry for him for a moment as it seemed to her that he was in a considerable amount of pain, but she forgot her sympathy as soon as he started to push his hard length inside of her. It didn’t just hurt; it was _excruciating_. She felt as if she were being split apart at the seams.

She tried to squirm away from him, crying out wordlessly and whimpering when she realised he had moved his hands and had her pinned. _I can't get away!_ she thought, panicking. She couldn’t even try to push him away as he was leaning his weight on her shoulders and upper arms, holding her down. She couldn’t do anything except try to accept his slow invasion of her body, couldn’t feel anything except the horrible burning sensation between her thighs. The next breath she took was a loud pained gasp. She held her breath for as long as she could, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to contain it all, trying to keep her dignity. But she had to breathe. When she started to feel a burning sensation in her lungs, too, she exhaled a pitiful shuddering breath. She was crying due to the shock and the pain of it all, tears streaming from her eyes even though she was trying to keep them shut, her quiet sobs causing every new breath to hitch.

She was on the verge of screaming at him to stop, to get off her, to never touch her again, when he paused his relentless pushing, closed the short distance between their lips, and kissed her.

The kiss surprised her, and the pleasant sensation his lips brought was a sharp contrast to the torture he was putting her through down below. He curled his tongue around hers the way he had done before and the pleasure of it helped her relax and let the burning pain fade a little. He continued to kiss her, and she continued to let the panic and the tension drain from her body, allowing him to soothe her with his oddly gentle lips. She could still feel the pain of his half-finished invasion, but it was becoming easier to bear the more she relaxed. She was no longer crying -- though her tears were not yet dry on her cheeks.

It was as if he had been waiting for her to relax to some certain extent, because as soon as she let go of the last of her tension, he surged forwards, burying his manhood completely inside of her with a grunt, finally letting go of her arms. She let out a startled sob and reached for his shoulders, wanting to hold onto something other than the bedclothes she had been doing her best to crush.

She was grateful that he was staying still, letting her get used to the strange feeling of being so _full,_ letting the burning, throbbing sensation fade again. Sansa risked a look at him once she felt brave enough, opening her eyes tentatively and blinking to clear her blurry vision. His eyes were still squeezed shut, and his face was still all twisted up into a grimace. Additionally, he was very flushed and there were small beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. His breathing was so laboured that it seemed to her that he was practically panting like Lady sometimes did when she had been running in the godswood.

As if he could feel her curious gaze, he opened his eyes and stared down at her. She had never seen eyes look quite that full of conflict and turmoil. She didn’t trust herself to analyse all of what he had to be feeling, but she did recognise the guilt at the centre of the two storms of emotion his eyes had become.

“This won’t last long,” he ground out with some considerable effort by the sound of it.

She tightened her grip on his shoulders when he started to move, digging her nails into his skin. He barely seemed to notice. His pained grimace had given way to an almost slack-jawed look of pure pleasure as he started to thrust his hips rhythmically, pulling perhaps halfway out of her before filling her again. He wasn’t rough, but his movements weren’t exactly gentle or slow, either. Each time he pushed into her she let out a tiny whimper or a gasp that she had no idea if he could hear over the sounds of his laboured breathing and grunts of effort.

It didn’t really stop hurting, but after a little while she started to get used to the pain and sometimes she felt a strange spark of pleasure when he entered her from a certain angle, and his body aligned with hers in a certain way. It was faint, but it gave her hope for the future. Her mother had said the first few times would be strange and uncomfortable, but perhaps once she got used to all this - once her body adapted to this sort of invasion - it might feel pleasant? 

Stannis suddenly sped up, his grunts turning into a drawn out groan, his thrusts becoming more desperate and out of control. With one last powerful movement of his hips, pushing himself further inside than ever before, he collapsed heavily on top of her, his mouth close to one of her ears. She could hear him struggling to catch his breath so she tried to remain still and not bother him.

It was getting incredibly hard for her to expand her chest and fill her lungs when Stannis finally pulled out of her and rolled off to the side, his breathing back under control. The burning sensation between her legs intensified, and she could feel something wet and warm seeping out of her. Was that supposed to happen? Her mother had said something about it, hadn’t she? She didn’t dare ask Stannis.

They were silent for a long time before Stannis quietly instructed her to go make use of the garderobe. She blushed but went to do as he asked. She wrapped a robe that had been left for her use around her shoulders and gingerly made her way to the nearest privy. She wanted to hurry because of the mess that was running down her thighs, but she was too sore to be able to walk very fast. Making water only seemed to increase the burning sensation between her legs, and she wept quietly as she attempted to pat and wipe herself clean as gently as she could. Even in the dim light of the garderobe she could see that the cloths she was using to clean herself were coming away bloody. 

Once she had finished she did feel a little better, however, and it was nice to be somewhat clean again. She wiped her tears away and took a few deep breaths in the corridor outside the bedchamber. Then, wrapping her robe more tightly around herself, she returned to her husband.

He seemed to have spent her time away scowling at a very noticeable red stain on the white bed sheets. 

“Would you like me to call for fresh bedclothes, my lord?” she asked in a small voice, alerting him to her presence. He jerked his head around to look at her, seemingly startled.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “No. Come here and leave the robe.”

She slid under the covers with him, naked again and very self-conscious, wondering what he wanted with her. He held an arm out and pulled her close, holding her about the shoulders and encouraging her to lean her head on his chest. She went along with him, feeling very surprised that he would want to show her such physical comfort. She was even more surprised at how much she desperately _needed_ it. There was a lump in her throat again, and she was sure she would start weeping once more if she did not distract herself in some way.

“Did I… was I to your liking, my lord?” she asked, her voice sounding weak and tremulous.

Stannis sucked in a loud breath and let it out as a sigh. “There are not many men on this earth who would not be pleased with you, my lady. Only a fool would fail to appreciate you,” he muttered, making what should have been a compliment sound almost like an insult. “I am no fool,” he added darkly.

“Then I am glad,” she whispered, “I only wish to please you, my lord husband.” It was her first and foremost duty as a wife according to both her mother and Septa Mordane. Please her husband. Give him heirs. Run his household. It was what she had been trained to do ever since she could remember and she was determined to do well, even if her husband was not at all like a knight from a song.

Stannis shifted and Sansa looked up at him, meeting his eyes. He was gazing at her with incredulous disbelief, blinking as if she had just told him that she could fly.

She decided not to say anything, broke their eye contact and brought her body closer to his, throwing a leg across him so that she might have one of his thighs in between hers. She was still throbbing between her legs and she felt a strong need to have something pressed firmly up against her. Giving into the urge felt wonderfully soothing and she didn’t try to stop herself from sighing softly with pleasure. Stannis had gone very still while she fitted herself to him, but she only noticed the unnatural stillness when he suddenly started breathing again. He didn’t object to her new position, however, so she assumed it was allowed.

“What’s Storm’s End like?” she asked after a while. Stannis’ voice was deep and a little raspy, and she thought it might be nice to hear him talk some more. Jon had told her that Stannis was a different man when he was in his keep - at peace and almost content - and Sansa thought it was probably a safe topic of conversation. It made sense for her to ask, too, as she was to become Lady of Storm’s End.

“It is one of the strongest castles in the Seven Kingdoms,” Stannis said, a hint of pride in his solemn voice, “some say it was built with spells woven into the walls, preventing harmful magic from being able to touch the castle…”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know. I have never seen magic wielded against Storm’s End. One does not need to use magic when one can lay siege to a castle and force the occupants to starve,” Stannis said bitterly, tightening his hold around her shoulders noticeably. Sansa did not mind. She thought perhaps he wanted comfort as she supposed the memories of the siege must not be terribly pleasant for him.

“I look forward to seeing it,” she said quietly, discovering as she spoke that it was true.

“It is a better situation than Dragonstone,” Stannis said. “I am still Lord of Dragonstone, too, but I will not expect you to visit that dismal rock when I must. You will be more comfortable at Storm’s End.”

It was Sansa’s turn to press herself more closely to Stannis now, in an attempt to show him how his words pleased her. She could hardly believe that he would concern himself with her comfort, but he had said it himself. He wished to provide a comfortable home for her. Perhaps she was grasping at straws, but it felt like a romantic gesture coming from him.

“You should try to sleep, my lady,” Stannis said at length, “it has been a long day.”

Sansa nodded and started to pull at the braids that remained of her intricate hairstyle. She assumed they were quite disheveled from the bedding ceremony and then the… everything. Some of the pins had most definitely gone missing. It was difficult to get at all of her braids lying down as she was, so Sansa reluctantly rose up to finish the job. She had to remove her leg from where it had been resting atop Stannis’ thigh to do so, and she immediately missed the warm pressure it had been providing her with. She was inclined to hurry her work with her hair so that she would be able to resume her previous position as quickly as she could, but as she was combing her fingers through her newly unbraided hair she noticed that Stannis was watching her hand with apparent fascination. Seeing the way his eyes glittered with interest made her want to linger over her hair a little longer.

“Would you like to…?” she asked shyly, indicating her hair and hoping he would understand that she was asking if he wanted to touch it.

She had to work hard to suppress a smile when he immediately flushed red and looked rather dismayed at having been caught staring. But he swallowed his apparent embarrassment and tentatively brought a hand up to the nearest lock of her hair. At first he just let the tips of his fingers ghost over the length of it, but then he combed through it like she had been doing for while. It felt incredibly pleasant and Sansa found herself humming happily and leaning closer to him. Finally, he wrapped a small lock around one of his fingers a few times, tilting his head to the side and blinking at the way he suddenly appeared to be wearing a copper ring.

“Usually a maid brushes my hair before I go to sleep, but I think I will have to do without tonight,” she told him with a shy smile.

Stannis made a noise of assent, but Sansa wasn’t sure he had really heard her as he was still transfixed by his new ring.

She moved to lie back down, wanting to return to her previous position more than she wanted to let him stare for the rest of the night. He seemed to come back to himself when her movement caused her hair to unwind itself from around his finger. Before she settled herself completely, she paused to look at him, wondering if he would be terribly offended if she presumed to kiss him good night.

She’d risk it.

Quickly, so that she wouldn’t have time to change her mind, she brought her lips to his and gave him a chaste kiss. “Good night, my lord,” she whispered, fitting herself back against him exactly the way she had before, revelling in the comfortable pressure of his thigh between her legs and the general warmth and strength of him.

He was no gallant handsome knight and he had hurt her when he had taken her maidenhead, but he was holding her very gently, he wanted to give her a comfortable home, and he liked her hair.

It was more than she had expected of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about Stannis. No one ever properly explained foreplay to him, and virgins need to be _really really wet_ so that they don't get hurt.


	5. A Terrible Price

Stannis stared at the young lady in his arms and tried to understand what had just happened to him. It was difficult to think clearly due to the heavy, sleepy haze that had settled over his mind and his muscles, and the unfamiliar _warmth_ of sharing Sansa’s body heat. He felt as if his usual sharp way of thinking was beyond him, blunted by the events of the day and night. He understood that his own body craved true rest above all else, but he was resisting the tempting embrace of sleep even as he held Sansa more securely to him.

Sansa was asleep and unaware of his gaze, so he allowed his eyes to wander a little more freely than he might have if she were still awake. She was not fully covered by the soft bedclothes and lying face down half on top of him. He could see most of her back and the graceful curve of her neck -- though it was partially hidden by her glorious hair. He desperately hoped that bearing his children would not damage it as it had damaged Selyse’s hair. Maester Cressen said it was common for pregnancy to cause a woman’s hair to thin or even fall out to a certain extent, but Stannis wished for Sansa’s hair to remain as it was: soft and thick and _beautiful._

He was still having difficulty grasping how truly beautiful his young bride was. When he had seen her enter the Great Sept of Baelor he had experienced a brief moment of utter _panic_ at the thought that he would be responsible for something so precious. As her lord husband he would be responsible for her comfort, her well-being and her safety, and for a moment he had felt convinced that he was wholly unequal to the task. She had approached him in her flowing gown, her beauty seeming to shine from within, suffusing the very air she breathed with sweetness and light, and Stannis had realised how utterly old, bald and _disappointing_ he would look next to her. He knew very well that he was worthy of a bride such as Lady Sansa Stark, but it stung his pride to think how the courtiers might mock their unequal appearance. He knew intimately how vicious those adders could be when it came to the ‘homeliness’ of a person, and he was not foolish enough to think his name and position would save him from mockery when he knew that even innocent little girls that harmed _no one_ were considered fair game.

He wondered if his wife would ever sink to such depths. Would she deride Shireen the way even his own blood had done in the past? Sansa’s behaviour at the wedding feast gave him hope that she would not. He had observed her closely during the feast and had seen that not only was Sansa strikingly beautiful, but her manners, her grace, and her poise were beyond reproach. She had somehow even encouraged lords that usually did not wish to discuss much of anything with him to linger on in his presence, happily listening to Stannis’ ideas for a tax reform as if they were genuinely fascinating. He had always despised empty words of praise and flattery, and the courtesies his wife had performed so easily and so _naturally_ had always seemed absurd and pointless to him. However, it seemed that most of the lords he had wished to speak to did not think Sansa’s courtesies were foolish at all, and Stannis had reaped the benefits of their improved willingness to listen.

Stannis closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with a sigh. It did not seem possible or likely that a lady of such beauty and impeccable manners would accept him so readily, wish for his kisses, and express a genuine desire to please him.

_“I only wish to please you, my lord husband.”_

Her words had been repeating inside his head ever since she had spoken them, taunting him with their sincerity. How could she have said such a thing after what he had done to her? He had made her weep and bleed and yet she only wished to please him? It was ridiculous.

She was too perfect. How could such a creature be real? How could such a creature be _his?_

Never in his life had something this good been gifted to him with so little effort on his part, and he could not bring himself to believe that there would not be some terrible price to pay as soon as he let his guard down.

Stannis sighed and tried to shift around without waking Sansa. She was still pressed quite firmly against him -- as if she wanted to be near him even in her sleep. It seemed that Davos had been right about her feelings about being held. Surprisingly, he found that he liked it, too. Or perhaps it was not so very surprising? What manner of man would not enjoy having a lady such as Sansa Stark naked in his arms?

 _Gods,_ but pulling the bedclothes away from her naked form had been an overwhelming experience. He had already been feeling decidedly out of his depth due to the _kissing,_ so perhaps that had contributed to the dizziness he had felt at the sight of her, but he had nonetheless been relieved when Sansa had not seen fit to comment on his undoubtedly foolish expression. 

Stannis did not know why the kissing had affected him like it had. He had seen people kiss, had seen how lovers would tangle their tongues together and appear to devour one another, and a part of him had occasionally been a little curious about the activity. For the most part he had simply told himself that it was wanton and served no purpose, and he had never felt bereft due to the lack of those sorts of kisses in his life. It is impossible to miss that which one has never had, after all. But kissing Sansa had been… _arousing_. Deeply arousing in a way he had not expected. It had made him long to see her - to look upon the gift he had so inexplicably been given - and as there had been no reason not to do exactly as he wished…

If he were the type of useless man to spend hours imagining the ideal female form and composing rambling poems about porcelain skin, soft curves and long graceful limbs, he would have found that all his fantasies had taken physical form in _her._

He did not know why he had proceeded to give into the urge to gaze at her most intimate of places, but she had obediently spread her legs to let him look… and touch… and it had made something quite feral inside of him twist and writhe and demand to be loosed. It had been difficult to control his lust after that, and the way she had encouraged him to kiss her had chipped away at his self control until nearly nothing remained. He recalled how he had attached his lips to hers and brought his hands up to fondle her teats, and in his mind’s eye the memory seemed a hazy blur of sensory information that he still couldn’t quite sort through.

Had his kisses - the touch of his hands - truly made the girl wet? There was nothing hazy about the memory of how his fingers had slid easily in the moisture she had produced, and his heart started to beat faster at the thought that he had been able to _prepare_ her, after all.

Not that it had truly mattered. He had tried to tell her that it would not matter if he attempted to prepare her or not, but she had asked so sweetly that he had not been able to deny her. Perhaps a part of him had hoped that he was wrong, and that preparing her would lessen the pain he would have to inflict on her. But he should have known better than to hope.

It had been utter anguish to hurt her. Her tortured grimace and the sharp, pained gasps that had heralded her tears had broken something within him just as surely as he had broken through her maidenhead. Hearing and seeing her cry, feeling the way she tensed up and tried to escape... He had not felt like such a despicable _brute_ since he’d had to do the same thing to Selyse.

However, once he had broken through and sheathed himself fully it had been _unparalleled ecstasy._

He could not remember it ever having felt quite as wonderful.

The pleasure of it had erased all his concerns for a few sublime moments, wiping his mind clear of everything except the sensation of her heat enveloping his cock again and again, squeezing him within an inch of his sanity. His heart pounded at the very memory, and astoundingly, he started to feel the familiar pressure of his arousal returning once again. He grimaced and forced himself to remember the price of his pleasure. Forced himself to think about the pained look on Sansa’s lovely face as he had pushed into her, the sound of her cries, and the taste of her tears as he had kissed her in an attempt to get her to relax and let him the rest of the way in. 

His arousal disappeared as surely as a flame did when doused with a bucket of ice cold seawater.

Stannis was more convinced than ever that there could be no gods. What god would allow a woman to suffer like that while simultaneously giving a man such pleasure? It was not _just._

Why did the gods demand that a lord place the cloak of his protection around a lady’s shoulders only to turn around and put her through such a bloody, brutal ordeal? Was it so that the lord in question might know what it was to break an oath? Or was a lord perhaps not meant to protect a lady from the pain he, himself, inflicted? If so, it would explain a few things...

Thankfully the worst of it was over, at least. The next time would be easier. He’d give her some time to recover, but there would have to be a next time. He and Selyse had usually lain together when she was in the middle of her cycle to increase the odds of a successful union. That is, of course, when Maester Cressen deemed it safe for seed to quicken in her womb. She was always such a sickly, frail woman…

The idea of touching Sansa so seldomly made him irrationally irritated. Why should he deny himself her company? He would be within his rights to lie with her every night if he chose to do so. Until she fell pregnant. The idea of Sansa carrying his child was not a new one, but he was struck now by an image of the beautiful girl in his arms; round with his child and glowing with health and vitality the way some women did when they carried. Staying away from her bed for seven or eight months would be a small price to pay for such a sight. 

_A small price to pay for a son,_ he thought guiltily.

Sansa moved in her sleep, rubbing up against him pleasurably and breathing a soft sigh; her warm breath tickling his chest. She did not seem distressed by this sleeping arrangement and she had been eager to let him hold her, even returning to him without being prompted to do so after she had finished letting her hair free. 

Her _hair…_

The fact that Sansa had offered to let him touch her hair and that she had seemed to _enjoy_ it was almost absurd now that the moment was gone. It was the sort of intimacy he had not expected his young wife would be eager for in the wake of the pain he had caused her, even though she had taken well to being held. 

Sansa had willingly kissed him good night, too… Perhaps she would not resent him if he chose to lie with her regularly? He quite liked the idea of enjoying his usual conversation with Ser Jon and then retiring to his chamber to find Sansa waiting for him. His imagination helpfully supplied him with an image of Sansa on the four-poster in the lord's chamber in Storm’s End, candlelight giving her hair a life of its own, her naked skin exposed to him, her legs eagerly parted, her hands reaching for him, and her lips ready to kiss him…

His cock started to twitch again and Stannis heaved an annoyed sigh. He was being ridiculous. Such flights of fancy could only lead to disappointment. He doubted his wife would ever eagerly await his attentions. He knew perfectly well that doing his duty by her would never bring her much pleasure, so why should she anticipate it? Because he would hold her once he finished satisfying his lust? Stroke her hair? That hardly seemed an equal exchange.

No. He would not allow himself to become a lecher because his wife happened to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He would be disciplined. He would do his duty and nothing more. She was a highborn lady and deserved to be treated with _respect._ He would not use her like Robert would use a common tavern wench. 

Feeling resolute and determined, Stannis finally allowed sleep to claim him.

He was almost sure that he had just closed his eyes for a few minutes when he woke up again, but the light trickling into the bedchamber through the gaps in the heavy curtains indicated it was early morning. He had slept through the night.

Missing the warm weight of his wife in his arms he looked around in an attempt to find her. He spotted her nearly at once and felt himself redden at the sight he was faced with. Sansa was lying on her side next to him, but she had moved down so that her head was close to his abdomen. She was propped up on her elbow, resting her head on her hand and _looking_ at him. Either his own movements or her interference had caused the bedclothes to shift so that he was intimately exposed to her gaze. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or embarrassed that his cock was as hard as it usually was when he woke up. It was most definitely a more impressive sight in this state, but wouldn’t Sansa judge him to be a lustful, uncontrolled beast for becoming aroused even in his sleep?

He cleared his throat and pulled on the covers until he was hidden from view.

Sansa made a tiny, high-pitched sound that reminded him of the squeak of a mouse. She was looking up at him with her eyes wide and she was chewing on her bottom lip nervously. She was clearly worried that she had incurred his wrath.

He gave her a stern look, but did not scold her. He had taken the time to examine her the previous night - the memory of her delicate pink folds made his cock jump - and it was within her rights as his wife to look upon him in her turn. It was uncomfortably nerve-racking not to know what she thought of him, however. He wanted to ask her, but he was much to proud to do any such ridiculous thing. If she was displeased with his cock it was not as if he could get a new one, and knowing that it pleased her would only feed his ego and be of no practical use. It was a futile question with useless answers and he _would not ask it._

Sansa had taken it upon herself to crawl back into his arms, hiding her warm face against his chest and pressing her soft teats against his flank. He could feel the stiff peaks of her nipples quite clearly and was suddenly awash with an overwhelming desire to pinch them with his fingers, or perhaps even suckle at them like a babe.

Absurd.

“I didn’t mean to stare, my lord,” she said in a frightened whisper, her words muffled by his chest. “It’s just I woke up and I could feel it _growing_ and I was curious,” she continued, sounding more embarrassed than frightened, now that he thought about it.

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply brought up a hand and started combing through her hair that way he had done the night before, hoping she was still inclined to allow it. He felt her relax and was highly gratified by the soft moan his touch produced.

“It’s so different from a little boy’s,” she whispered hesitantly.

The corners of his mouth twitched. "I should hope so," he said, raising an eyebrow even though she would not see him doing it. The part of him that had wanted to ask for her opinion of his cock revelled triumphantly in the awed tone of voice she had used and it took him a little longer than usual to squash the inappropriate feeling. Stannis reminded himself that Sansa would have seen her brothers without their smallclothes on at some point in her childhood and that she was probably just noting the difference.

“Are you going to… ?” Sansa trailed off, seemingly too embarrassed to finish her question. As he didn’t know what she was asking he found it intolerably frustrating.

“Am I going to what?” he snapped, “finish your sentences, girl.”

Sansa tensed up again and Stannis immediately regretted his harsh reaction. He much preferred her body to be languid in his arms as it had been moments ago.

“Are you going to take me again?” she whispered meekly.

He stopped moving his hand through her soft tresses as a curious sensation of pleasure rolled down his spine; the thought of taking her again making his cock harden to a further - impossible - extent. He could go back inside her, feel her wonderful tight sheath around him again, have another few moments of pure bliss before he had to face the day…

“No,” he said brusquely, pushing his lustful thoughts away. _Sansa is a highborn lady. She deserves a rest,_ he told himself firmly.

“Oh,” she breathed, sounding confused.

“You have done your duty for the time being. I will not expect you do so again until we are settled at Storm’s End,” he explained flatly. Perhaps she would not remember the blood and the tears quite as clearly by then. Perhaps he would not, either.

“Of course, my lord,” she said obediently. He was almost certain he could detect a hint of relief in her voice and he clenched his jaw tightly and tried to ward off his irrational disappointment. What had he expected? That she would beg to be allowed to share his bed every night before they set out for his keep? He was not that foolish.

He started to move his fingers through her hair again, liking the way the repeated motion soothed and calmed him and liking the sounds that Sansa made even more. He listened intently and tried to mark when he did something that produced a particularly pleased sigh. He soon realised that she liked it when he touched his fingernails gently to her scalp or her neck, so he did more of it. She rewarded him with soft moans, and by arching her back and pressing her body more tightly against his, rather like an overly friendly cat.

But this was not causing his arousal to fade away. He had to go. If he didn’t leave soon he would most likely end up doing something regrettable.

"I must go," he said, surprised at how deep his voice sounded. He freed his fingers from her hair with no small amount of reluctance.

Sansa made a noise that he was absolutely certain was what a pout would sound like, if pouts made sounds.

Did she know how tempting she was making herself? He actually had to bite back a groan as he disentangled himself from her warm, long limbs and stood up. He was grateful for the way she averted her eyes as he found his breeches and tried to tie the laces over his stubborn arousal. He ended up knotting them loosely and finding the robe that had been left for his use to cover himself properly.

He cleared his throat a little awkwardly to signal that he wanted Sansa's attention. She turned to look in his direction, a serene expression gracing her features.

"Shall I send for a maid to attend you or would you like to go back to sleep?" he asked curtly.

"Please send for a maid, my lord," she said with a grateful smile, "thank you."

The Red Keep was very still and quiet as it was early and the inhabitants had stayed up into the small hours of the night, drinking and feasting in honour of his wedding. The servants were up and about, of course, but they never made much of a racket. He sent the nearest one to procure a maid for Sansa and headed for the chambers he usually slept in. He was still achingly hard and was seriously considering whether he should use his hand to resolve the matter once he was ensconced in the privacy of his rooms when Ned Stark suddenly stepped into his path.

“I hoped I would find you here, Lord Stannis,” Ned said seriously, a small frown on his long face.

Stannis tensed up, wondering if he had come to interrogate him about the wellbeing of his daughter. _If he did not trust Stannis to care for her properly Ned should not have agreed to give her to him!_

“King Robert received a raven from the Wall two days ago,” Ned explained, a worried look creasing his brow.

“Dark wings, dark words,” Stannis muttered humourlessly, feeling decidedly uncomfortable about having a conversation with Ned about ravens in a corridor, while improperly dressed and still painfully aroused due to the soft moans he had coaxed from Sansa’s lips. Not to mention the feel of her teats, warm against his side...

“Indeed,” Ned agreed, “the commander of the Night’s Watch writes that the wildling clans have been united by Mance Rayder and that they march on the Wall as we speak.”

Stannis heaved a great sigh. “And what does my brother intend to do about this?” Perhaps if he just ignored his arousal it would go away?

“He intends to call for a meeting with his small council to discuss the matter soon. As I am not a member, and you are the master of ships, I thought to warn you and ask that you encourage the king to send additional men to the Night’s Watch. There are not enough men at the Wall to withstand an assault from a wildling army.”

As much as it pained him to do anything Ned Stark advised him to do, Stannis had to agree that Ned was proposing a wise course of action. He grimaced, but nodded. “Have you spoken to my uncle about this?” he asked, wondering if Ned was relying on Stannis to be the sole voice of reason at the next small council meeting, or if his Uncle Lomas Estermont, the Hand of the King, would be speaking on Ned’s behalf, too.

“The Hand agrees with my assessment, but encouraged me to speak to you.”

Stannis nodded.

“I am afraid that the coming winter will be a hard one,” Ned said moodily, staring off into the middle distance, “and there are rumours in the North of an ancient evil rising beyond the Wall.”

Stannis fought the urge to snort. “Ancient evil?” he said, instead, trying not to sound too derisive.

“The white walkers,” Ned said quietly, suddenly meeting Stannis’ eyes and startling him with how deadly serious he was being. But before Stannis could collect his thoughts and answer, Ned had changed the subject.

“How does my daughter fare?”

Stannis had no idea how to answer that question. The facts would have to do. “She’s awake. I asked a servant to fetch a maid for her.”

“And she is… well?” Ned asked awkwardly, a strange melancholy expression on his face.

Stannis thought of the blood and the tears. “She is as well as can be expected,” he said at length. Should he mention how pleased she had been for him to stroke her hair? How she had seemed almost displeased when he had left her? No, perhaps not.

Ned nodded once, that strange expression still on his face. If Stannis didn’t know any better he might have imagined that Ned was on the verge of some sort of emotional outburst, but that was surely a ridiculous notion.

“I should like to get to my chambers now, Lord Stark,” Stannis said stiffly.

“Of course,” Ned said, his voice hoarse. He moved out of the way and Stannis strode to the door of his private chambers.

Once inside Stannis leant against the door and sighed. Wildlings and white walkers. Was this the terrible price he had been half expecting? It was absurd to think that the wildling army had anything to do with the fact that he was now married to a woman he didn’t hate, but he couldn’t help but wonder at the timing. 

Looking down at himself he noted that the conversation with Ned Stark had succeeded in deflating his arousal somewhat.

He shook his head and heaved another tired sigh. He needed to get dressed and he needed to get on with the day. Returning to his usual routine would be sure to put him at ease.


	6. Practise

Several hours after Stannis left their wedding bed, Sansa sat in her mother’s solar and made sure her posture did not betray how tender she was feeling. She, Arya and her mother had eaten a light luncheon together and spoken of the wedding feast. Arya had not been very impressed with the entertainment, but she had liked the food. Her mother scolded Arya for not dancing with any of the young knights that had dared to ask for the honour instead of stuffing her face, and Arya rolled her eyes. Usually that would have been Sansa’s cue to give her younger sister a superior, exasperated look, but she hadn’t really felt up to it for some reason.

Once they had finished their simple meal Sansa’s mother had sent Arya on her way, leaving the two redheads alone together.

“Are you well?” her mother asked softly, reaching across the table to clasp Sansa’s hand.

Something about her mother’s sympathetic gaze and her gentle voice made Sansa want to throw decorum out the window and start weeping all over again, but she told herself that she was a married woman now. She couldn’t cling to her mother’s skirts or cry at her breast like a child.

“I am,” she managed, her voice only a little choked.

“Did you do as I instructed? Did you try to put him at ease by talking to him?” Her mother stood up and moved over to a comfortable bench covered with soft furs and feather pillows. Sansa was glad to follow her mother and sit close by her.

“I tried,” Sansa said tremulously, “and it did help a little.”

“That’s good. It bodes well for your future if Lord Stannis was willing to listen to you.”

“He was kinder than I expected,” Sansa said, thinking about the way he had kissed her and touched her hair.

“Lord Stannis is not cruel by nature. You have done nothing to offend him and were placed in his care. He had no reason to treat you poorly,” her mother pointed out reasonably.

“Yes,” Sansa agreed quietly, “that’s true.”

They were quiet for a few beats, but then Sansa couldn’t contain herself any longer.

“It hurt so much,” she whispered, feeling the familiar hot sensation in her eyes despite her best effort not to cry.

“Oh, Sansa…” Her mother placed her arms around Sansa and pulled her close, rocking her gently and rubbing her back, making small comforting circles with one hand. “I’m so sorry…”

Sansa wept and felt rather surprised she had any more tears to shed after both crying last night while she had been with Stannis, while she had cleaned herself up, and then today after Stannis left her. It had been very strange as she had actually felt very content that morning while Stannis had held her and stroked her hair, but for some reason her contentment had vanished, pushed aside by a deep sense of _loss._ Her tears had flowed forth unbidden once the maid Stannis had sent had gone, and Sansa had sobbed as if she were grieving a loved one.

“The worst is over, I promise you. It will get easier,” her mother said soothingly, “and you’ll probably think nothing of this pain once you’ve had your first child.”

Sansa shivered and wondered if that was supposed to make her feel better. It didn’t, but after a moment she managed to cease her weeping regardless.

“Did he seem pleased with you?” her mother asked, giving Sansa a piercing look. She knew she would not get away with a fib while her mother observed her so keenly.

“I… I think so,” Sansa stammered, flushing and clasping her hands together nervously. She wondered if she should tell her mother that he did not intent to bed her again until they were at Storm’s End. She decided to remain silent on the matter as she did not think her mother would understand that Sansa was quite relieved for the reprieve.

“Did you not ask him?” her mother asked sharply.

Sansa took a deep breath and tried to remember what Stannis had said when she had asked whether she had been to his liking. “I did ask. He said it would be foolish not to appreciate me,” she said hesitantly, feeling guiltily as if she were breaking her husband’s confidence, “he said I was beautiful.”

Her mother seemed satisfied with Sansa’s answer. She was nodding to herself, a peculiar gleam in her eyes.

“Good. Now, dry your tears and let us think on whether there is anything you would have us send from Winterfell to Storm’s End.”

***

Queen Margaery summoned Sansa to her solar two days after Sansa’s wedding feast. Sansa felt certain that she would want to hear whether her advice had been of any help, and wondered what she ought to say. The truth didn’t seem entirely appropriate. On the whole, it didn’t seem entirely appropriate to discuss such private matters with Margaery, but it wasn’t as if Sansa could just _refuse_ to talk to the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She’d just have to make sure Lord Stannis didn’t find out she had discussed his efforts in the bedchamber with anyone. She had the vague notion that he would not be pleased with her if he heard of it.

At first Margaery did not seem to wish to discuss anything inappropriate, asking only whether she was excited about her impending move to Storm’s End and other such harmless matters. But eventually Margaery asked her ladies to leave her alone with Sansa for a little while and Sansa tensed up, anticipating the probing questions that were sure to follow.

“Well?” Margaery simply said, giving Sansa a curious look, a playful smile lingering at the corners of her lips.

Sansa blushed and looked down at her sewing project.

“How did it go?” Margaery prompted when Sansa didn’t say anything.

“Do you mean to ask how my wedding night went, Your Grace?” Sansa asked demurely, still averting her eyes from the queen’s.

“Yes, please do tell!”

Sansa took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She had known this was coming.

“Lord Stannis was very kind to me,” she said simply, wondering if it would be enough.

“Did he manage to get you properly prepared?” Margaery asked with an impish quality to her voice.

“I think I was starting to get there,” Sansa said before she could really consider her words. She stopped speaking when she realised what she had implied, giving Margaery a wide-eyed look.

“You were starting to get there but then he rushed it, didn’t he?” Margaery asked sympathetically.

Sansa blushed furiously, but nodded. That did seem like a pretty accurate description of the events of her wedding night.

Margaery sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Men,” she said exasperatedly, “they’re hopeless most of the time, honestly.”

Sansa giggled nervously, feeling a little wicked. Margaery gave her an indulgent smile. “You’re going to have to make sure that he is more attentive next time. Doing your duty does not have to be chore,” Margaery said with a meaningful glance at Sansa, “I suppose he is well endowed?” she added, raising an eyebrow.

Sansa had barely recovered from her previous blushing spell when more hot blood rushed to her cheeks at Margaery’s question.

“I’m assuming he is because Robert certainly has nothing to be ashamed of, and they _are_ brothers,” Margaery explained.

Sansa prevented herself from grimacing at the thought of King Robert without his breeches on, biting her lip and shrugging instead. “He is the only fully grown man I have seen unclothed,” she admitted, “I have no basis for comparison.”

“Show me with your hands, just approximately,” Margaery requested, an amused light in her eyes.

Sansa had looked for long enough while Stannis had been sleeping to remember his size, so she held her hands apart to indicate the length, wondering if she should say anything about the girth, too.

“Oh, my!” Margaery said with delight, “you must still be sore!”

Sansa hurried to drop her hands, rubbing her fingers together anxiously. She _knew_ Stannis would not like that she had told Margaery so much.

“No, I’m - I’m well,” she stammered. It had only taken her a little while to feel something approaching normal again. There had been no trace of blood when she made water since that first time and she had been walking without any discomfort or noticeable tenderness by the evening of the previous day.

“You have not been sharing a bed with your husband since your wedding night, then?”

“No, Your Grace,” Sansa said softly, “Lord Stannis said he does not expect me to share his bed until we have settled in at Storm’s End.”

“So that’s why he’s in such a rush to leave,” Margaery said with a small laugh. She quickly became more serious, however, reaching for Sansa’s hands with both of hers and looking her straight in the eyes.

“You should use your remaining days in King’s Landing to prepare yourself for the next time he beds you,” Margaery said earnestly, “now that you’re a married woman there is nothing wrong with practising for your husband. Do you know what I speak of?”

Sansa stared at Margaery in confusion and felt completely lost.

Margaery made a frustrated noise and explained. “You can imitate your husband’s manhood using your own hand. Your fingers are much smaller, of course, but it will help make things less… painful. Trust me.”

Sansa heard herself make a frightened squeak of a noise, but she was very intrigued by Margaery’s words nonetheless.

“Just try it,” Margaery said firmly, “no one will know.”

***

It took Sansa two days to work up the courage to do as Queen Margaery had suggested and _practise_ for her husband. The promise of less pain the next time Stannis bedded her was too tempting to resist, however, so she decided to at least _try_ it. She waited until it was very late and drew the curtains of her four-poster shut, leaving absolutely no gaps. She burrowed underneath her covers and waited for her heartbeat to slow down to a reasonable pace. It seemed strangely frightening and forbidden -- this act of placing her fingers in _there,_ but a little exciting, too. She remembered that she ought to be wet before trying to place anything inside, so she started by doing the only thing that had reliably made her smallclothes damp in the past: bundling her covers up between her legs and rubbing up against them while letting her mind wander.

In the past she had often imagined what it would be like to be kissed and held by a man, but now she _knew_ what it was like, so she remembered instead. She thought of everything Lord Stannis had done that had been pleasant, and lingered over the feeling of his powerful thigh between her legs, and the way his tongue had felt against her neck.

And then, guiltily, she imagined Ser Loras Tyrell in her husband’s place. His handsome face replacing her husband’s sharp, angular one. The thought made blood rush to her cheeks, heating them up and making them tingle faintly. It also made her want _more_ than the friction from rubbing up against her bundled up sheets.

Perhaps it was time to try her fingers?

Feeling embarrassed and still a little guilty, Sansa reached down with her hand, moving her smallclothes out of the way and tentatively stroking between her folds with the tips of her fingers. She felt damp and slippery and very soft and her fingers were causing such _lovely_ sensations. It felt best to rub gently at a very sensitive spot just where her curls started to thin out below her mound, but she knew that if she was going to put her fingers inside she would need to aim lower.

Well, she had two hands, didn’t she? She could keep stroking that sensitive place and push the fingers of her other hands inside, couldn’t she?

She was surprised at how _soft_ she felt on the inside. Warm, wet and soft like some sort of strange pudding. Having two of her fingers in there did not bring her any particular pleasure at first - it just felt odd - but she continued to stroke that sensitive place near her mound, and she started to think of the way Lord Stannis had kissed her and wondering what it would feel like if _Ser Loras_ were to kiss her, and suddenly it started to feel a lot less strange. As if led by some instinct, she started to move her fingers in and out of herself, imitating the way her husband had alternately pulled out of her and then filled her, and then it began to feel really _very_ lovely.

She felt the urge to speed up and increase the pressure because it was as if something was _building_ deep within, a coiling sort of warmth that was sending tendrils of pleasure and heat from her centre to every other part of her body. It was elusive and just out of reach and she needed more, more, more! A small whimper escaped her as she sped her movements up until they were almost frantic. She would never have thought that she would enjoy the amount of pressure she was exerting, but now that she was on the verge of something she was certain would be _wonderful_ she was not only enjoying it, she was _craving_ it. She only wished she had the strength to add even more pressure, the endurance to move her hands with even more speed!

Just as she started to fear that she would become too tired to keep moving, her fantasy of Ser Loras was replaced again by memories of her husband. She remembered the way Stannis had looked when he had been thrusting into her; that expression of pleasure that she had never seen the like of. She recalled the sounds he had made, too, and suddenly she was making her _own_ involuntary sounds as she reached the peak she hadn’t known she had been striving for. It was almost shocking in its intensity, and she was certain she had never felt such overwhelming heat spread from within her. It was as if she were ill with a fever, but instead of feeling wretched it felt _divine._

After she came back to herself she spent an awkward minute trying to decide whether she wanted to continue or stop; part of her wanting to keep going, part of her too tired and too hypersensitive to really like the idea. She was cooling down, and the wetness that had felt so pleasant before was starting to feel sticky and uncomfortable, her previously warm skin turning clammy.

Still, there was a deep sort of contentment deep in her belly, and her mind felt pleasantly fuzzy and peaceful.

Was this what it would be like with Stannis once she got used to him?

Was this what her mother and Queen Margaery had meant when they indicated that doing her duty as a wife did not have to be unpleasant?

She hoped so.

***

“Brother, I want a word,” Robert said, preventing Stannis from leaving along with the other members of the small council. The meeting had been long, and Stannis had been surprised to see how seriously his brother had taken it. Attending at all would have been remarkable in the past, but drinking only watered down ale? Paying attention? Actually making some sound decisions based on the knowledge he had at his disposal and the advice Stannis and the others had meted out? It was nothing short of miraculous.

The war with the Lannisters had worked wonders on his brother, it was true, but Stannis had never expected it to _last._

“I’m sending you to the Wall,” Robert said once they were alone in the imposing room the small council usually met in. Stannis clenched his jaw and glared at his brother in silence, unable to come up with a curse word that would express his reaction to Robert’s pronouncement with enough vitriol.

“Not right away, of course, I’m going to see how long it takes Slynt to bugger things up first. I expect it won’t be more than a month or three before he starts sending ravens begging for reinforcements. When that happens, I want you to be ready.”

“Why send that corrupt fool at all if I am to be the one to command your forces at the end of the day?” Stannis asked, irritated and weary of King’s Landing politics.

“Perhaps Mormont only needs more men. Slynt and his forces will be enough if that is the case. If it turns out they are in grave need of a decent battle commander you will go,” Robert explained gruffly. Before Stannis had a chance to process the fact that Robert had just recognised his skills as a battle commander to his face, Robert continued speaking. “I had thought you’d be pleased to be able to stay south of the Neck for as long as possible! It’ll give you chance to get a child on that pretty bride of yours,” he said with a leer.

Stannis felt himself redden and tried to pass it off as anger rather than embarrassment. He wanted to tell Robert to worry about getting his own bride with child rather than stick his nose where it did not belong, but he bit his tongue, reminding himself that Robert was his king. He ground his teeth together instead, glaring at his brother.

As if Robert had sensed Stannis’ thoughts, the leer slowly melted away, replaced by the tired, sagging expression of a much older man.

“Queen Margaery has yet to conceive. I cannot send you into battle while you are my only viable heir. I’d prefer either my wife or yours to be with child before you go to the Wall. And don’t moan at me about Shireen. She’s a lovely girl, but the Iron Throne needs a king.”

Stannis stared at his brother for a few uncomfortable silent moments. Robert wanted Stannis to get Sansa pregnant as quickly as he could so that he could go to the Wall and possibly be stabbed with a pointy stick by some feral wildling? _Or murdered by a white walker if what Ned Stark said was true…_

Either way it was intolerable.

“As you command, Your Grace,” Stannis ground out, hoping his brother would allow him to leave now.

“Don’t look so dour, brother! I’ve hardly given you an unpleasant assignment. You’re to go to Storm’s End and make an heir. You act as if you’re the one who will have to carry the babe to term!” Robert was looking more like his usual self now that Stannis had agreed to do as he was told: cheerful as anything.

Stannis could feel his heartbeat causing a vein on the side of his neck to throb and his face felt hot with rage. “You expect me to make an heir that I might not live to _see,_ ” he hissed disdainfully, feeling too furious to bother with addressing his _king_ properly.

“Don’t get yourself killed and that won’t be a problem,” Robert said, clapping him bracingly on the shoulder.

Stannis did not dignify that with a response. Instead he asked through clenched teeth if that was all, and if he was free to leave.

“Go, go! Spend some time with your little wife!” Robert said, making a shooing sort of motion with his hands and then searching for his cup of watered down ale.

Stannis didn’t hesitate, turning to leave as soon as Robert allowed it. He still hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask why Robert had given Sansa to him, unable to believe that it had been a kindness, but unwilling to discover the jape.

Perhaps it would be best if he never asked.

***

Sansa couldn’t believe it. She had assumed that she would be allowed to take Jeyne Poole and some of the other maids from the Stark household with her to Storm’s End, but on the day before they were meant to leave Lord Stannis forbade it, insisting that more people would only slow their journey.

“The maids at Storm’s End will serve your needs adequately,” he had said sullenly, leaving absolutely no room for argument. Not that she would ever dare argue with her husband. Perhaps once she knew him better she would attempt to imitate her mother and use subtle means to help her husband understand that her point of view was the correct one, but for the moment such a thing might be a dangerous undertaking. She couldn’t risk it.

She could, however, talk to her father.

“... he won’t even let me take Jeyne with me! Please could you speak to him?” Sansa said imploringly, holding her father’s hand and looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

Her father looked at her with both eyebrows raised, seemingly startled by what she had told him.

“It is rather unusual…” her father said slowly, “I’ll ask him about it, but if he is determined that this is the way it will be I’m afraid I have little hope of changing his mind. The decision is his to make.”

“I know, please ask him all the same. I did not dare question him,” Sansa admitted, lowering her eyes to the floor.

Her father frowned and placed a finger under her chin, indicating his wish for her to meet his eyes again. Once she did, he released her.

“Has Lord Stannis treated you ill?” her father asked with worry in his voice, a deep crease between his brows.

Sansa wanted to avert her eyes again, but forced herself to continue looking at her father’s concerned face.

“Not at all. He has been very busy ever since we wed, so we have not spent very much time in each other’s company,” Sansa said truthfully.

“Why do you not dare question him?” her father asked a little sharply.

“He is my husband,” Sansa said, floundering a little and feeling unequal to the task of explaining herself.

“Lord Stannis appreciates those who speak their mind, Sansa,” her father said in a firm tone of voice, “he is not the sort of man who will be won over by empty praise and flattery. He does not care for courtesy or insincerity and he does not tolerate weakness. With Lord Stannis you must earn his respect through honesty and strength of character. He will not think well of you if you send others to fight your battles for you.”

Sansa stared at her father in dismay, feeling small and foolish.

“I did not mean to send you to fight my - my battle,” she stammered even as she realised that it was exactly what she had intended. But she had not forgotten her reasoning for not fighting this particular battle on her own. It was not wise to take on an opponent one knew so little about. “Only, I do not know Lord Stannis so well as you, Father,” she said hesitantly, “I do not wish to raise his ire by questioning him.”

 _If Lord Stannis becomes angry with me he will have the power to make me miserable,_ she thought to herself as she gazed up at her father, willing him to see the situation through her eyes.

“I doubt you would anger him by asking questions,” her father said, though he hesitated a little before speaking, clearly thinking Sansa’s words over, “but as I said, I will talk to him for you this time. Once you are at Storm’s End I will not be able to intercede on your behalf, however.”

“I know. Thank you, Father,” Sansa placed her arms around her father’s neck and embraced him tenderly. Her father stiffened at first, but relaxed after a moment and patted her awkwardly on the back. 

She would miss her parents terribly once she was alone at Storm’s End, and without the familiar faces of the Stark household to look upon she was afraid she would feel the loss of her childhood home and family much more acutely. She desperately hoped her father would be able to convince Lord Stannis to allow her to take a few maids with her, but she took comfort in the knowledge that even if her father was unable to sway him she would still see Jon at Storm’s End.

***

“Lord Stannis, might I have a word?”

Stannis looked up from the letter he was penning to see Lord Stark standing in front of his desk. Appropriately enough, he had not heard the Quiet Wolf approach.

“Speak,” Stannis said, gesturing irritably at an unoccupied wooden chair.

“My daughter is distressed,” Ned said heavily, not moving to sit down, “she does not understand why she is not to be allowed her escort.”

Stannis grimaced, put his pen away, and clenched his jaw. Had the true character of his pretty wife at last been revealed? Would she pretend to obey him and then seek to overturn his decisions - his _commands_ \- by sending her allies to fight for her cause in her stead?

“If you are concerned that my daughter’s escort will lengthen your journey they might follow at a slower pace and join you a little later -”

“Why have you come here?” Stannis snapped, cutting Ned off.

Ned crossed his arms in front his chest and frowned down at himself.

“Lady Sansa sent you, did she not?”

Ned looked up slowly and there was ice in his gaze. “Escort or no escort, the decision is yours to make,” Ned inclined his head respectfully, “but I suggest you speak to Sansa and explain that she need not fear you.”

Stannis blinked at his good-father and felt a very familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. _His wife feared him?_

“I have given her no cause to fear me,” Stannis bit out -- as much to convince himself as to convince Ned. She had been pleased when he had left their wedding bed, had she not? And he had barely spoken to her since...

“Consider reassuring her nonetheless,” Ned said, the ice in his eyes melting and a mournful look appearing instead.

Had her enjoyment when he had stroked her hair been mere mummery? Had she been frightened of him the whole time? Stannis’ insides twisted and blackened at the thought.

Too proud to openly acknowledge that he would consider Ned’s words, Stannis simply nodded to signal that he had heard the request. Thankfully Ned did not linger after that, leaving Stannis alone to brood over his wife’s cowardice and her apparent fear of him.

***

Some time after her father left her Sansa received a message from her husband, asking her her to meet him in the gardens before they were to dine with her family. Sansa suspected her father had already spoken with Lord Stannis and that her husband wanted to discuss the result of the conversation with her. She decided to wear one of her most flattering gowns for the occasion; Tully blue silks that matched her eyes, accented with Myrish lace that helped keep the neckline modest while allowing tempting glimpses of her bosom. Now that she _knew_ her husband considered her beautiful she thought it could not hurt to use the knowledge to her advantage. It might improve his mood.

It did not take Sansa very long to find Lord Stannis in the gardens. He was precisely where he said he would be - a secluded part of the gardens, far from prying eyes and ears - at precisely the time he had given. He was wearing his usual dark colours; his clothing simple but fine, and he did not look pleased to see her. She did notice that his eyes swept over her figure twice before settling unnervingly on her face, however, and wondered whether it was on account of her gown.

“My lord,” Sansa said once she reached him, bowing her head demurely.

“I will not take additional people from King’s Landing to Storm’s End. I wish to make the journey in as short a span of time as possible. Each additional person will slow the horses down. I had thought you understood this,” Stannis said, sounding very displeased.

Sansa took a subtle, deep breath and clasped her hands together in front of her to keep her husband from noticing how they shook. A pretty gown was clearly not enough to distract him from his foul temper.

“I… I understand, my lord,” Sansa said softly, looking down at her clasped hands.

“Do you really?” Stannis barked, “or do you only pretend? Shall I expect Lady Stark next? Or your older brother?”

Sansa felt herself blushing, and she continued staring down her hands. _Why does he have to be so abrupt?_ she wondered bitterly. Was it really so terrible of her to ask her father to speak to him for her?

“No, my lord. I won’t ask anyone else to speak to you on my behalf.”

“If you have concerns I expect you to raise them with _me,_ ” Stannis said, reaching for her chin the same way her father had done not so long ago, forcing her to meet his eyes, “but once my decisions are made I will not tolerate being questioned.” Her husband’s grip on her chin was decidedly less gentle than her father’s. She hoped her eyes were not obviously tearful, but suspected that she hoped in vain.

Lord Stannis let her go almost as soon as their eyes met, a pronounced scowl on his face.

She took a shuddering breath and nodded. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, willing her tears not to fall, “please don’t be angry with me.”

“I am not angry,” Stannis snapped, sounding rather angry to Sansa’s ears. She blinked at him and tried not to look too sceptical. Suddenly her husband placed his large hands on her shoulders, causing Sansa to flinch and become worried that he wished to restrain or shake her. She stared at him, her eyes wide with fright, and an involuntary whimper escaped her. Stannis immediately let her go, his scowl deepening noticeably.

“I am not angry,” he repeated again more firmly, “you are under my protection, my lady. You need not fear me. I will not harm you.”

 _You have already harmed me,_ she thought sadly, unable and unwilling to say such a thing out loud. Something in her eyes or her expression must have betrayed her, however, as Stannis visibly recoiled, taking a step back from her.

He recovered quickly, however, drawing himself up to his full height and crossing his hands in front of his chest. “If you feel I have wronged you in some way, I wish to hear you speak of it.”

Sansa swallowed and looked down her clasped hands again, resisting the urge to wring them together nervously. “I do not think you have intentionally wronged me, my lord,” Sansa said diplomatically, unwilling to hurl accusations at him.

“Pray tell me how I have _unintentionally_ wronged you to make you act as a frightened mouse would in my company,” Stannis commanded, derision in his voice.

Sansa felt a flash of anger and looked up to meet his eyes. “You hurt me on our wedding night,” she lashed out unhappily, regretting her words almost as soon as she spoke them and saw the pained grimace on Stannis’ face. She hurried to continue, trying to soften the blow her words had obviously dealt him. “I believe you were trying to be as patient and gentle as you could,” she said softly, blushing furiously, “but how am I to know if you will bother to be patient with me if I anger you?”

It was a question that had been tormenting her, for she could not imagine what sort of pain he could bring her if the way he had held her down and taken her maidenhead had been an example of gentleness.

Stannis went rather pale, and dropped his arms to his sides. “You think me capable of being such a brute?” he asked, sounding insulted and shocked.

“I don’t know, my lord,” Sansa said quietly, overwhelmed with regret at having lost her temper and spoken in such a way to her husband, her anger having dissipated almost at once.

Her simple answer had him blinking at her, a thoughtful look on his paler-than-usual face.

“I will not,” he said at length, “intentionally harm you over a disagreement. In the bedchamber or out of it. Do I make myself clear?” He sounded utterly serious, and he was watching her with a solemn, determined look on his features, searching her face for her response.

Sansa was glad he was not attempting to touch her as it helped her straighten her spine and lift her chin bravely. “You do, my lord,” she answered him, her voice surprisingly steady. She didn’t quite know what to think of what he had said, but judging by everything her father and Jon had ever told her about Lord Stannis, he was not the sort of man to say anything he did not mean. She felt as if a load had been lifted from her shoulders, and the sickening knot of fear that she had been carrying around in her stomach seemed to loosen, though it did not vanish entirely.

Stannis cleared his throat a little awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable. “With that clear, is there anything you want to discuss regarding our departure?”

“No, my lord,” Sansa said, knowing it was useless to attempt to persuade Stannis to allow her to bring some of her servants. But she thought of a question soon after she had uttered her denial and hurried to ask it before Stannis closed the subject. “Are we to share a wheelhouse?”

“I had planned on riding,” Stannis said quickly, examining her face closely, “would you - er - prefer my company?” The question was asked slowly and a little mockingly. Sansa was not sure whether he meant to mock her or himself.

“I would not be opposed to some conversation on the road, my lord,” Sansa said carefully, not wishing to state plainly that she did not really desire her husband’s conversation, however. Talking to him was _exhausting_ as she was constantly worried that he was judging her for something.

“I see,” he said, sounding as if he knew perfectly well that it was not his conversation she was after.

she observed the peculiar expression on her husband’s face. She could not read it properly as it seemed a mixture of different expressions. She’d need to spend a lot more time studying him, but she thought it might be some strange blend of longing and bitterness.

He arranged his face into his usual scowl before she had the chance to really study him. “If there’s nothing else, we should perhaps join your family? The evening meal should be served soon.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was an awkward moment where Sansa stared expectantly at Stannis, waiting for him to offer her his arm, and he stared back with his brow furrowed, clearly confused and irritated. Sansa’s heart was beating very fast as she decided to be brave and initiate contact with him. She was not afraid of his touch now that he seemed calm and had promised not to harm her, but she still might not have done it if they hadn’t been on their way to see her family. Sansa couldn’t bear the idea of allowing her mother to see her arrive for dinner without being properly escorted by her husband, however, so she took a deep breath and placed her hand at Lord Stannis’ elbow, hoping that the light touch would be enough to remind him of his manners and prompt him to arrange his arm in the proper way.

Stannis appeared very startled by her touch for a moment, but he recovered quickly and offered his arm in that stiff way of his. Sansa waited for him to start walking and followed his lead as soon as he did. Soon they fell into the rhythm they had established at their wedding feast. She was certain Lord Stannis was walking much more slowly than he usually did for her benefit, and yet she was still lengthening her stride considerably.

Sansa was pleased to note the nod of approval her mother gave her when Lord Stannis escorted her into the comfortable dining room her parents had been presiding over during their stay in King’s Landing. Sansa was proud of what a striking pair she and Stannis made, even though she was still not perfectly at ease with her husband. She knew that they looked well together, her unusually tall and willowy frame complemented by his own imposing height and broad shoulders; her soft features and feminine beauty a perfect foil to the sharp angles of his face and his masculine strength. He was not the golden prince Joffrey had been, but in some ways he was decidedly more impressive.

If only he could be prevailed upon to _smile_ on occasion…


	7. The Kingsroad

Dining with her family that night was a bittersweet experience. Sansa could hardly believe that she would be leaving them on the morrow, and that she might not see them again for many months -- possibly years. It hurt her head and her heart to dwell on it, so she pushed the thought away in an attempt to simply enjoy the evening.

Once they had eaten and started to mill about and make conversation, Sansa spent most of her time near her parents and Robb, though she made sure to speak with everyone else, too, even though she had no idea what to say to her sister.

Lord Stannis kept very quiet for the most part, though he did reluctantly get pulled into a discussion with her father and Ser Jon at some point. Sansa heard them mention the Wall, but didn’t think much of it.

“Cheer up, sister,” Robb said when Sansa had been quiet for too long, “we will see each other again soon. I am certain mother and father intend for me to take a wife at some point, and you will have to attend the wedding.”

Sansa smiled brightly at Robb. She hadn’t thought of that and it filled her with joy to have such an event to look forward to, even if nothing was set in stone as of yet. It was inevitable that there would be a wedding at some point, however, as Robb was the future Lord of Winterfell and he would need to marry a suitable lady and produce an heir.

“I look forward to it,” she said happily, reaching for Robb’s hand and clasping it tightly. Robb squeezed her hand in return and gave her a searching look.

“Lord Stannis has been treating you well, hasn’t he?” he asked quietly, making sure no one would be able to hear but them.

Sansa felt herself blush as she thought about her argument with her husband, but she met Robb’s eyes and nodded.

“Father told me that you are not to be allowed to take any of the maids with you, nor Jeyne Poole,” Robb whispered, sounding as if he hardly believed what their father had told him.

“Lord Stannis is anxious to make good time. He feels additional people would slow the journey to Storm’s End,” Sansa explained calmly, trying not to let her resentment bubble up to the surface. She was Lord Stannis’ wife now, and she and he should always present a united front to the outside world. Her mother had always said that it was of the utmost importance that Sansa should always _appear_ to support her husband, even if she questioned him in private.

“Well, can’t some of the servants follow at a slower pace?” Robb suggested.

Sansa was certain that her father would have suggested this to Stannis and she was certain what her husband’s response would have been.

“My husband informs me that Storm’s End is fully staffed and that there is no need for additional servants,” Sansa said steadily, giving her brother a small smile.

“Oh,” her brother said, blinking at her in mild confusion before shaking his head slightly and arranging his face to show his usual genial expression. “Well… you should send a raven if you ever feel the need for familiar company. I wouldn’t mind riding south to visit you and Jon.”

Sansa promised that she would, though she knew that she likely wouldn’t. She would not invite any member of her family to travel all the way from Winterfell to Storm’s End unless a proper occasion warranted it.

“Perhaps we should all visit you,” Robb said suddenly, as if he had just been struck by a marvellous idea, “I know we are meant to leave for Winterfell soon, but I don’t see why we couldn’t all go to Storm’s End first and stay with you and Lord Stannis for a little while.”

Sansa widened her eyes and felt her heartbeat quicken at the thought. It would be so lovely to have her family come to stay. But would her husband be amenable to it? She glanced over to where he stood with her father and Ser Jon, all three wearing identical serious expressions. She’d have to ask him carefully. 

She had often witnessed the way her mother prepared her father before asking him for a favour. The length of time she spent making sure he would be in a receptive mood before she asked varied depending on how large a favour it was, and how much it would require of her father. Sansa blushed at the thought of herself doing the things her mother did for her father for Lord Stannis. Would he even appreciate those kinds of gestures? Soft touches and gentle smiles might simply go over Stannis’ head… and was there any edible treat he favoured above another? Would he like lemon cakes?

But perhaps he would enjoy it? She was relatively certain her father was fully aware of what her mother was doing whenever she started to pamper him, but that he liked it too much to object to being manipulated in such a fashion. Would Lord Stannis react the same way? He did not seem like the sort of man who had ever been pampered and petted much. His forbidding nature did not exactly invite such behaviour, but she remembered how he had touched her when they had been in bed together and wondered if a few gentle touches from _his wife_ would be considered as useless as the empty flattery her father said he so disliked.

The promise of a visit from her family might be a sufficient reward for her to attempt it, though she could not imagine employing her mother’s tactics quite yet. Perhaps once they had settled in Storm’s End and she was more used to her husband and less frightened of his stern nature...

“I’d like that,” Sansa said to her brother, “perhaps you might suggest the idea to our father?”

Robb promised he would but didn’t get to say much else before King Robert and Queen Margaery suddenly arrived, ostensibly to share a farewell drink with her and Lord Stannis, though the king seemed more interested in speaking with her father.

It did not take Queen Margaery very long to corner Sansa and give her a knowing look and a whispered, “so?”

Sansa blushed to the roots of her hair and looked wildly around to see whether anyone was observing them. Lord Stannis gave her them a cursory glance and scowled fiercely, clearly displeased to see them talking to one another. No one else took any notice.

“It’s not proper to discuss it, Your Grace,” Sansa whispered, understanding that the queen wanted to know if Sansa had taken her advice and _practised_ for her husband. Sansa could not imagine owning to it, but she had indeed practised every night since her first successful attempt. She still felt rather guilty and embarrassed about it all, but it did help her sleep peacefully -- despite her anxiety about the impending changes to her life which might otherwise have disturbed her sleep.

“Then we shan’t. Just nod if you’ve been doing what we talked about, and nod again if you think it has been helpful,” Margaery said quietly, a small conspiratorial smile on her pretty face.

Sansa nodded, waited a few beats, and nodded again. Her face felt so hot that she was certain she would not regain her usual fair complexion until morning!

Margaery smiled brightly and changed the subject to the weather, speculating about what sort of conditions they might expect the road to Storm’s End to be in. King Robert wandered over to them with her father and Lord Stannis in tow, goosing his wife in a very unseemly way and laughing uproariously when she reprimanded him with feigned indignance. Her father looked amused by the king’s antics while Stannis’ only response was to sneer.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t allow me to throw a feast to give you and your lovely wife a proper send-off, Brother,” Robert said, winking at her just as he pronounced her to be lovely.

“It has been less than a week since our wedding feast, Your Grace. Another feast in our honour would be an unpardonable extravagance,” Stannis barked.

Robert rolled his eyes dramatically and looked at her father. “I hope I shall be allowed to throw a farewell feast for you, old friend?”

“Are feasts all you think about, man?” Stannis snapped, not giving her father a chance to reply to Robert’s question.

“You should go get some rest, Brother. You’re very irritable when you’re tired,” the king said blithely.

Stannis’ nostrils flared and he narrowed his eyes at Robert, his jaw clenched tightly shut.

Fearing that peace in the realm might very well be in danger if the two brothers were to be allowed to remain in the same room for much longer, Sansa placed her hand at Lord Stannis’ elbow to gain his attention. “I don’t know about you, my lord, but I could certainly do with some rest. Would I be terrible rude to turn in early?” she asked, gazing up at him.

“Not at all,” he bit out,” I think I shall retire, too. We are to leave at first light on the morrow. I will escort you.”

Sansa forced herself to smile and nod. She would have liked to spend longer with her family as it was her last opportunity to do so for a while, but she took comfort in the tentative plan she and Robb had made. She was almost certain her husband would not forbid a visit from her family -- even if she didn’t try to be especially sweet to him before she asked. He really had no reason to be contrary about it, and she would be the Lady of Storm’s End, wouldn’t she? It would be within her rights as the lady of the keep to ask her family to stay, wouldn’t it?

Sansa made the rounds and said good-bye to her parents and her siblings. She told them she did not expect them to wake up early to see her off, but deep down she hoped they would.

All too soon she was on Lord Stannis’ arm again, walking a little faster than she was comfortable with, and trying to look as if she were at ease. He lead her in the direction of the chambers they were supposed to share now that they were married, and Sansa wondered if he would attempt to kiss her good night before he left for the apartment reserved for the master of ships. Somehow she couldn’t quite picture it.

“You would be wise to go straight to sleep, my lady,” Stannis said uncomfortably when they reached her chambers.

“Of course, my lord,” Sansa said softly, looking up at him curiously and still thinking of kisses. She both wanted him to kiss her and not. If he kissed her, that meant he liked her, and despite their disagreement and her apprehension she did want him to like her. But if he kissed her, would that mean he expected her to invite him inside? Would he want more than just a kiss?

Stannis did not look very much like he was considering kisses. He was scowling and looking at her with wary suspicion in his eyes. She wished he wouldn’t. It made her feel like she was doing something wrong, and she disliked that feeling intensely. Arya was the one who did things wrong; Sansa was always the perfect one.

Reminding herself that Stannis had said that he would not expect her to share his bed until they were in Storm’s End and that everyone said he was a man of his word, she decided to be brave. Sansa got up on the tips of her toes and pressed a soft kiss to Lord Stannis’ cheek, feeling like it was what a perfect wife would do to bid her husband good night and wanting to wipe that suspicious look from his eyes. She heard his breath catch before she moved away and felt strange swooping sensation in her belly at the sound. He looked quite startled! Could a small kiss really be enough to startle the imposing man in front of her? The idea was exciting and the remnants of her knot of fear seemed to fade away. Perhaps Stannis was unreasonable and frustratingly obtuse, but he had sworn not to hurt her. Without the threat of violence hanging over her she felt confident that with time she would be able to convince Stannis to occasionally make concessions to her will. If her mother could do it, so could she.

“Good night, my lord husband,” she said, bowing her head.

Stannis cleared his throat and choked out a curt, “good night, my lady,” before turning on his heel and striding off at full speed.

Sansa watched him go, bringing the tips of two fingers to her lips, touching them and wondering at how warm and tingly they felt. Then, shaking her head a little to clear it, she entered her bedchamber and rang for a maid to help her get ready for bed.

***

Stannis wished he could talk to Davos. The conversation with Sansa in the gardens had filled him with turmoil. He could not understand why it seemed so damned important to the girl to bring an escort with her to Storm’s End. Even though Stannis knew it was the common practise it still felt insulting -- as if she did not think his household would be adequate for her needs. Additionally, he had disliked every last person Selyse had brought with her to Dragonstone and there were enough remnants of her people and Renly’s people at Storm’s End to be getting along with without adding more servants he was sure to end up hating. Most of all he abhorred the idea of Sansa bringing that little friend of hers to Storm’s End. He had seen them giggling and gossiping together, and he felt uncomfortable about his wife perhaps sharing intimate details about him with some unknown entity. That Jeyne Poole would always be loyal to Sansa rather than him, and if Sansa trusted her with certain… _details_ about him, it was doubtful that the girl would be able to keep her mouth shut. The thought of his entire household learning Sansa’s opinion of him was intolerable. He would not allow it.

It was enough that _he_ knew her poor opinion of him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Sansa’s face when he had told her that he would not harm her and that she was under his protection. She had looked just as a frightened broken bird; stirring up old and painful memories that he would have preferred to leave undisturbed.

_“You hurt me on our wedding night.”_

Her words still stabbed at his conscience like sharp knives. She was _so young._

The fact that he had hurt her when he had taken her maidenhead was something he had already known, but he had foolishly thought that she had forgiven him for it, or at least understood that it had been unavoidable and that he had not _wanted_ to hurt her. The way she had thrown her pain in his face had caught him off guard as she had seemed so content and… pleased when he had left her bed.

The uncertainty of whether she truly enjoyed his touch tormented him. It had not _seemed_ as if she had recoiled from him - neither on the morning of their wedding nor this evening - and _she_ had been the one to indicate that she wished for his arm, to initiate the peck she had given him...

Perhaps he would not feel quite so wretched if the soft kiss she had bestowed on him at the door to her chambers hadn’t immediately filled him with desire for her. What manner of monster was he to be driven to distraction by lust due to touches he was not certain his wife even _liked?_

He still could not quite believe that she had genuinely been afraid that he might take her by force if she ever angered him. It had disturbed him deeply that she would doubt his honour in such a way, but he knew that it was not an entirely absurd notion on her part. He was aware that married men felt entitled to certain things and did not always bother to ascertain whether their wives were agreeable before helping themselves to what they wanted. He knew it was a husband’s right but it seemed distasteful to him. He had always given Selyse fair warning and plenty of opportunity to deny him if she wished to neglect her duty for whatever reason. She had never denied him, however, and he suspected it was due to the fact that he had always been reasonable about how much of her time he demanded.

Would he have the strength to be similarly reasonable when it came to Sansa? Could he afford to be quite as cautious as he had been with Selyse? Robert had commanded him to produce an heir as quickly as he was able and that would require taking no chances. He would have to lie with Sansa often at first to increase the odds of conception. Once Maester Cressen could confirm that her cycle was regular and establish when the odds of a successful union would be highest it would be possible to work out a schedule like the one he and Selyse had followed. Though the schedule should have meant bedding Selyse once every moon’s turn or so, it had very seldomly worked out to be quite that often. Maester Cressen often deemed her too weak to risk a pregnancy and Stannis himself had frequently been away to sit on the small council in King’s Landing. Quite often he had only been obliged to bed her two or three times a year.

The way his heart had sped up at the idea of lying with Sansa frequently, and the involuntary grimace produced at the thought of following a schedule that would mean touching her as little as possible, forced him to face the fact that he wanted to share Sansa’s bed often. He could not forget the pleasure he had found on their wedding night, no matter how guilty he had felt about it.

Would he become one of those men he despised? Pushing himself on his wife without regard for her wishes? All to satisfy his lustful urges?

He heaved a great sigh and distracted himself by going through the motions of his nightly routine and attempting to make himself comfortable on a mattress that was much softer than he preferred. Once he was as comfortable as he was likely to get his mind drifted towards Sansa and the coming nights. They would be sharing rooms at roadside inns on the journey and Stannis did not know if he would be able to keep his hands - or his… other things - to himself.

What if she kissed him again? What if she held on to his arm in that gentle caressing way?

It was ridiculous to become aroused due to such minor and innocent touches, and yet here he was, pitching a tent in his bedclothes at the thought of a peck on the cheek from his uncomfortably young wife. He tried to calm himself by running through the preparations for their departure one last time, reminding himself of the few minor details he needed to take care of when he woke up, but it was no use. He had been resisting the urge to find release ever since the morning after his wedding night, not really feeling as if he deserved the relief after what he had done, and now it had simply been _too long._

He growled in annoyance, fed up with his body’s ridiculous demands, and turned to lie on his front, trapping his cock between his abdomen and the too-soft mattress. His hips started to move almost without his permission, small thrusting motions that took the edge off for the time being but would only serve to drive him mad if he kept at it.

The memory of Sansa’s naked form swam to the forefront of his mind and he groaned into his pillow as he recalled her pert teats and her slim waist, the perfect softness of her thighs and the pink colour of the folds hidden between them. She was the very image of feminine perfection and she was _his._ His to touch, his to hold, and his to _fuck._

Stannis realised how much harder and faster he was thrusting when it became more of an effort to breathe due to the exertion, and feeling ashamed he turned back around to lie on his back, clutching the bedclothes to keep from grabbing at himself.

A vision of Sansa entering his chamber in a sheer nightgown danced behind his eyelids, a titillating fantasy where she climbed into his bed and settled herself over him, seating herself astride his body as if riding a horse, pulling her nightgown over her head to reveal her body completely and then sinking down onto his cock, moaning the way she had moaned when he had been running his hand through her hair…

Somehow one of his hands had found its way to his aching arousal, stroking the hard length and then wrapping itself tightly around the searing hot flesh.

The Sansa of his fantasy moaned all the louder, rising and falling on top of him, rhythmically filling herself with his cock over and over again and encouraging him to fondle her teats. It was a powerfully erotic image and Stannis knew he would not last much longer if he continued to let his imagination run wild as he pulled ruthlessly on himself.

Delaying the inevitable would be pointless at this stage, however, so he stopped trying to fight it.

He imagined taking hold of Sansa’s hips and moving her forcefully up and down, making her teats bounce, he imagined turning them around so that he could drive himself into her from above as he had done during their one and only encounter, and then, with no small measure of guilt, he imagined taking her as a stallion would a mare -- from behind, on all fours. The salacious nature of his fantasy helped push him the rest of the way off the edge and he climaxed with a strangled moan, an obscene amount of his seed spurting forth and covering his hand and abdomen thickly.

Feeling angry and ashamed of his behaviour, he got to his feet without delay, despite being decidedly shaky, and stumbled over to his washbasin to clean himself up.

It took him a long time to settle back down, but once his heartbeat and his breathing had slowed and the haze of pleasure, guilt and shame had shifted, he was able to think quite clearly. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that giving into his weakness now had been a wise course of action. It would allow him to keep away from Sansa on the journey south. As much as he desired her, and as much as her gentle touches and her kiss good night indicated that she was perhaps becoming a little less frightened of him now that he had expressly told her he would not hurt her, he did not think a roadside inn would be an appropriate venue for them to resume their duties as husband and wife.

He would keep to himself. He would not molest her.

***

Sansa was almost too sleepy to be properly thrilled at the way her family were all gathered to see her and Lord Stannis off, but she managed a genuine smile when Robb whispered that their father had said it was a splendid idea for them to visit Storm’s End before returning to Winterfell, and that she should send a raven as soon as she had asked Lord Stannis about it and gained his approval for the plan.

She embraced everyone - even Arya - and clung to her mother for the longest time of all.

“Send us a raven as soon as you’ve arrived safely,” her mother insisted as they finally drew apart, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I shall,” Sansa promised, feeling decidedly weepy herself.

Her father clapped a hand on her shoulder after she stepped away from her mother and seemed to want to embrace her again, though he had already had his turn. Instead of doing that, however, he bent to speak to her in a low voice that would not be overheard. “You will make a fine Lady of Storm’s End. I’m very proud of you, Sansa.”

Sansa nodded, closing her eyes to keep her tears at bay.

Once Lord Stannis had shaken hands with her father and nodded his head respectfully at her mother, he strode over to his destrier and mounted it smoothly. The horse snorted and looked about as impatient to be off as its master.

“Good-bye!” Sansa choked out with a forced smile on her face, rushing to climb into the wheelhouse before she could embarrass herself by crying. This would be so much easier if Jeyne were with her, she thought as she stifled a sob.

She found a handkerchief as soon as she had folded herself into the narrow seat, and dabbed at the errant tears that had escaped despite her best efforts. The horses were already moving, taking Sansa away from her family, away from King’s Landing, and away from everything she had ever known.

***

When they stopped for luncheon Sansa left her wheelhouse just in time to watch her husband’s mount come to a halt nearby. He struck quite the imposing figure on his destrier, and Sansa looked on in fascination as he dismounted with ease. He really was such a _large_ man, she thought as she considered him. Tall and broad and… _large._ Sansa was almost startled when Lord Stannis strode towards her and informed her that he would be joining her for the meal, but told herself it was only proper that they should eat together now that they were married.

Stannis did not make any conversation with her as they sat together and occupied himself solely with eating. Sansa found his silence to be so disconcerting and oppressive that it was almost a relief when it was time to return to the wheelhouse. Sansa did not exactly relish the thought of enduring the cramped quarters for several more hours, but it was better to be silent because one was alone rather than to sit in silence because one’s husband refused to make polite conversation.

She was horribly lonely in her wheelhouse, and had nothing with which to distract herself. A thoughtful servant had packed her sewing things within reach, but embroidery was finicky work that required good light and a steady hand. She would poke her fingers bloody with her needle if she attempted to sew in a moving wheelhouse.

With nothing to occupy her except her thoughts, Sansa ended up contemplating the path her life had taken, and trying to comprehend her husband’s motivations. She could not understand why he had been so adamant that she go to Storm’s End without an escort, and she could not understand why he was so irritable and harsh nearly all the time when she knew he had it in him to do something gentle like run his fingers through her hair.

A frightening idea suddenly seized hold of her. Had his gentleness after their wedding night perhaps been a one-off? What if he never showed her that sort of kindness again? What if he intended for her to run his keep, bear his children, have no friends, and receive no love or kindness?

Her heart was beating much too fast as she considered it, and her comfortable travelling garb suddenly felt much too tightly laced and stifling. Her panic passed by, however, and her rational mind pointed out that she would have Lady and Jon. Shireen had always been sweet to her, too, though Sansa did not know how the girl would react to having a new mother only three years older than herself. She hoped Shireen would not be very upset.

She would have friends and kindness, Sansa told herself firmly, and once she had children she could at least be certain of their love -- even if Stannis did not love her.

***

When they finally stopped at an inn for the night Sansa was so glad to be able to walk about and stretch her limbs out properly that she barely even blinked when she found out that she would be sharing a room with Lord Stannis for the night. As long as she would not be sleeping in a horse-drawn wheelhouse she would not have minded sharing with Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse, much less her husband.

The travellers ate a simple evening meal - hot soup and fresh-baked bread - but the plain fare filled Sansa’s empty stomach and warmed her through, so she did not complain.

“I will be downstairs for at least an hour or two longer if you wish to call for a bath to our room, my lady,” Lord Stannis told her quietly, his voice hoarse and his face weatherbeaten from the ride of the day. He smelled of horse and fresh air and there seemed to be less tension to the way he held himself, though his posture was straight and proud.

Sansa doubted she would be able to have a proper soak at a roadside inn, but a hip bath would be most welcome. It would feel nice to freshen up. Sansa thought it was surprisingly considerate of Lord Stannis to allow her time by herself to bathe, and she felt a rush of warmth towards her husband despite her lingering upset with him over the way he had refused to let her bring Jeyne.

“Wouldn’t you like a bath, my lord?” Sansa asked softly, wondering if the smell of horse would be as tolerable to her when Stannis was lying next to her in bed.

Stannis blinked at her and frowned, looking as if she had asked him a very odd question.

“I’m sure it would be pleasant for you to wash off the dust from the road,” she added in explanation. _Not to mention the sweat and the distinctive horse smell,_ she said inside the privacy of her own head.

Stannis just stared at her.

Sansa took a deep breath and gave her husband a small smile. “I will bathe first and then I will ask for fresh water to be brought up for your use,” she said decisively. Surely this was the sort of thing she was allowed to concern herself with as his wife?

“Fine,” Stannis said brusquely, coming back to himself, “have a servant find me when my bath is ready.”

Sansa did not linger downstairs after her conversation with Stannis. She made certain Lady would be fed and cared for and that she would have a warm place to sleep even though she was not allowed inside the inn, and then she found Jon to bid him good night.

It was only after she had bathed, put on a shift and a robe, and asked the maid that had been assisting with her hair to have clean water brought up for her husband, that she realised she would have nowhere to go while Stannis bathed. Perhaps that was why he had been looking at her in such a strange way when she had suggested his bath?

 _Well,_ she thought, _I won’t be seeing anything I have not seen before._

Once clean water had been brought up she asked a servant to fetch Lord Stannis quickly. Her own water had been lukewarm at best, and she had used it as soon as it had arrived. She did not want her husband’s bathwater to have cooled by the time he got to the room.

Sansa did not quite know what to do with herself as she waited for Stannis to arrive. Should she simply crawl underneath the bedclothes and attempt to fall asleep? No, she should stand and wait to greet Lord Stannis properly, shouldn’t she? Though she doubted he would care, either way. She decided to compromise and sit down on the bed.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Lord Stannis strode into the room without knocking, but scolded herself for being so nervous. This was her husband’s room, too, and he had every right to barge in without knocking.

He was standing in the middle of the floor and staring at her again, making no move to indicate that he had any plan to do anything except continue to scowl at her in the next few moments.

“Your bath, my lord,” Sansa said after an eternity of his staring, gesturing at the small tub, “the water will cool down soon.”

Lord Stannis grunted and started to disrobe with practised, efficient movements. He was wearing simple clothes with simple fastenings so he did not seem to require any assistance. Sansa felt her face warm up and decided to get into bed and face away to give him some privacy. She draped her robe over a nearby chair and hurriedly got under the ice cold sheets, shivering and clenching her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering. It was apparently not cold enough to warrant lighting a fire in the grate, but Sansa was used to the warmth of Winterfell’s hot walls and the Red Keep with its blazing fires, so the room seemed positively _freezing_ to her. The mattress was a little lumpy and the bed was much smaller than what Sansa had grown used to in King’s Landing -- she doubted Lord Stannis would be able to stretch out completely as the bed was only a little longer than she was. She would not pity him if that was the case. He had chosen not to bring his own feather bed along - wanting to travel as lightly as possible - so he would simply have to accept the consequences. The relative discomfort bothered Sansa less than she had expected. She was just glad to be able to rest her bones after a long day of being jostled about in a cramped wheelhouse.

She listened as Stannis finished disrobing and heard him get in the bath and start to wash. It was very tempting to turn around and watch him, but she would not have appreciated him doing that if their roles were reversed, so she remained resolutely on her side, facing away from the bath with her eyes closed for good measure. She wished sleep would find her, but she had never been quite as awake as she was now. She felt hyperaware of every sound Stannis made as he bathed and soon she couldn’t help but wonder if he would want to take her again -- even though he had said he would not expect that from her until they were in Storm’s End. She was very curious about what it would feel like now that she was no longer a maiden and she was also rather curious about whether her _practising_ would help make the experience more pleasant. But despite her curiosity she still hoped that he would not attempt to take her under their current circumstances. She very much doubted that the walls would prevent any _sounds_ from carrying, and Jon and the other knights were staying in rooms close by.

Stannis was quick about washing, and soon Sansa could hear him drying himself off. Fabric rustled and Sansa imagined that he was donning a robe. When Stannis called for a servant Sansa felt certain that he must be decent, so she turned to look at him. He was indeed wearing a robe, but his feet were bare and she could see part of his chest where he hadn’t closed the robe properly; the short dark hairs that grew there already dry. Sansa thought it was strange to see him so sparsely dressed, but she found that he looked rather less intimidating this way. It was almost difficult to believe that he was the same man who had looked so very powerful and imposing atop his destrier with his heavy travelling cloak about his shoulders.

A servant came to take the tub away and another arrived shortly to take Lord Stannis’ clothes to be aired out. Undoubtedly they would attempt to get the worst mud stains out, too, though Sansa hardly saw the point of it. Stannis would be riding again tomorrow and would probably get splattered with mud all over again. But Sansa was pleased that the clothes wouldn’t stay in the room with them as they carried a strong smell of horse.

As the servant girl left, a square of white fabric from the pile in her arms fell to the floor. Stannis had his back to her and didn’t notice. He appeared to be examining his sword belt in minute detail, holding it up to a nearby candle and squinting his eyes. Seeing that her husband was occupied, Sansa decided to slip from under the covers and fetch the fabric that had fallen. She moved quickly due to the cold, regretting her decision to leave the relative warmth of the bed almost at once. Her regret faded away as soon as she picked the fabric up and realised what it was. 

It was the handkerchief she had embroidered for Stannis all those weeks ago. 

The white material looked well cared for and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as she imagined what it might mean that Stannis still carried it with him. Had he liked the gift, after all? Did that mean he liked her, too? 

Sansa placed the handkerchief carefully on Stannis’ nightstand and got back into bed. She tried to breathe normally and think the matter through. Perhaps it did not mean anything at all that he had the pocket square about his person? Handkerchiefs were useful, and Stannis was a practical man.

Stannis had finished examining his sword belt and was making short work of dousing the lights. Soon it was pitch black and he was getting in bed with her, causing her heartbeat to race wildly. She focused even more fervently on regulating her breathing, trying to at least _sound_ calm, even if she was far from actually _being_ calm. 

Stannis shifted around for a little while, getting comfortable, but eventually he was still and silent. He did not seem to be about to so much as touch her any more than the small bed necessitated, so she supposed he only wanted to sleep. She felt relieved for the most part, though a small twinge of disappointment and worry nagged at her in a corner of her mind. Did he not want her? Had she displeased him in some manner? She pushed those thoughts away, determined not to fret over such things unless he still seemed indifferent to her once they were in Storm’s End. He had been riding for an entire day; he was probably just tired.

Should she bid him good night? It seemed the thing to do…

“Good night, my lord,” she whispered, holding her breath as she listened for his response.

Silence. Then came a reply in his raspy voice, “good night, my lady.”

Sansa released the air she had been holding in her lungs in relief and relaxed her body completely. Even though it might mean nothing, seeing the handkerchief had given her hope that her husband might - despite his harsh demeanour - hold some measure of affection for her. With that comforting thought in mind, Sansa allowed sleep to claim her.


	8. A Welcome Feast

Stannis had almost drifted off when he became aware of the fact that Sansa was asleep. He could tell that she was asleep because she was breathing very deeply and evenly, and also because she had wrapped herself rather thoroughly around him without a hint of a blush. She was obviously just seeking his warmth due to the coldness of the room, he told himself sternly, so he should not read anything into the way she was impersonating some sort of vine.

Unfortunately he had body parts that had absolutely no interest in listening to reasoned arguments.

He wanted to push her off so that he would be able to calm himself down and get some sorely needed rest, but as it could not be very long since Sansa had fallen asleep he was worried that pushing her away might wake her. If Sansa woke up she was bound to notice his arousal against her thigh and she’d be very likely to comment on it. Perhaps she would ask him if he was going to take her the way she had on the morning after their wedding? He wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to say no if she did.

Additionally, it really was quite cold without the warmth she provided.

_So soft… so warm… such a pleasant scent..._

He shifted around, carefully and uncomfortably, trying not to disturb her. She tightened her hold on him and mumbled something incoherent.

Why should he say no, though? They were married, weren’t they? And Robert had commanded him to produce an heir with all due haste. What if the timing was right for her to conceive just now? What was the point of denying himself when he had every right to take what he wanted?

Sansa sighed softly and moved her thigh against him in a way that he would have called suggestive if she had been awake. His hand wandered under the covers, coming to rest on the thigh that had just moved over his groin, pulling her tighter against him for some additional pressure. He had to bite his tongue to prevent a hiss of pleasure from escaping him.

 _What am I doing?_ he thought in dismay, releasing Sansa’s soft thigh and squeezing his eyes shut. Sansa was his _wife,_ and he had been through this. He would afford her the respect she was due as a highborn lady and he would _not_ expect her to be at the beck and call of his base desires. It was utterly unseemly to wake his travel-weary wife late at night and expect her to allow him to use her to satisfy his inappropriate _urges._

In any case, he had given her his word that she would not be required to lie with him until they were settled at Storm’s End. The fact that he was now regretting his hastily made promise did not make it any less a promise, and he would not begin this marriage by going back on his word. It would dishonour him to do so, and failing to control himself would certainly make him seem weak.

And what if he hurt her? The look on her face when she had told him that he had harmed her on their wedding night still stabbed at his conscience. He couldn’t forget how small and fragile she had seemed in the gardens of the Red Keep, though she had certainly not behaved as if she were frightened of him tonight when she had been insisting that he bathe -- with her in the same room, no less.

He still did not quite know what she had meant by it. For a brief moment he had wondered if she had been issuing some sort of _invitation,_ but the way she had tried to give him every privacy to bathe made him disregard the notion. Eventually he simply concluded that she had meant what she had said: that she wished for him to be able to clean the dust of the road off his person. It had been welcome to be on the receiving end of such a thoughtful gesture, and to his embarrassment he had spent the better part of his bath hoping for more signs that his wife might wish to _care for him._

Grimacing at his absurd folly, Stannis blew out a quiet tired sigh. Slowly, carefully, he moved Sansa until she was lying by his side. He was sure that once she was no longer half on top of him with an arm and leg thrown across him, he would be able to master himself and find sleep.

It took a good while, but eventually he became less… _excited_ and sleep claimed him not long after that.

***

Storm’s End was a very impressive sight. Sansa gazed at the huge drum tower in the distance, thinking that it was true what she had heard: that it appeared as an imposing, spiked fist thrust skywards.

“This is the best place to view the castle from a distance,” Lord Stannis said proudly from atop his destrier, “I thought it was only right that you should see it like this. You are Lady of Storm’s End.”

Sansa smiled. She did not mind that Stannis had halted the procession in order to allow her to take in the view. It was rather sweet, she thought. He was behaving just as Rickon sometimes did when he found a particularly shiny rock or an interesting clearing in the godswood, dragging someone - usually Arya - along so that they could admire his find -- albeit in a rather more restrained and dignified way. She was almost sure she knew just how best to react to this sort of thing, and hoped she was correct.

“It’s magnificent, my lord,” she praised truthfully, widening her smile as she looked up at her husband. She had to crane her neck more than she usually did as she was standing on the ground and he was on horseback.

“It is,” Stannis agreed, no trace of a scowl on his features. That had to mean he was very pleased, Sansa thought. “We should be able to make it by nightfall if we don’t dawdle for much longer.”

“Let us be off, then!” Sansa said, laughter bubbling up as she spoke due to her joy at the wearisome travel being near its end. Her husband seemed startled at the sound, and blinked at her in surprise.

Sansa climbed into the wheelhouse with some assistance from an attendant and thought that with any luck the next time she stepped out of it would be because they had arrived at their destination.

It had been surprisingly easy to share a bed with Stannis for the past few nights. The routine they had established on their first night of travel had been repeated every night since with very slight variations, and Sansa had been sleeping quite astoundingly well considering her circumstances. Lumpy mattresses, cold rooms, and the presence of her husband did not seem to do much to deter her travel-weary body from finding the sleep it craved, and she had always woken up just as Stannis left bed, feeling snug and warm and well rested.

There had been one morning, however, when she had managed to stir before her husband had a chance to get up, and she had been surprised and a little embarrassed to find herself pressed tightly up against him, leeching his warmth and feeling his heart beating steadily underneath her palm. She had been too warm and comfortable to move away, and had ended up dozing off only to awaken a short while later when Stannis gently disentangled them and got to his feet. He had almost seemed _accustomed_ to having to get himself free, making Sansa wonder if she had done it before.

She wondered if she would have more opportunities to sleep alongside Stannis once they were settled at Storm’s End. She knew that she would have her own chambers and that Stannis would sleep in the lord’s chambers so there would be no _need_ for them to share the same bed, but would Stannis want them to sleep together after they did their duty as husband and wife? She did not think she would object to it now that she knew how comfortable it could be. Stannis was quite pleasant when he was asleep.

There was still a little light in the sky when Lord Stannis himself helped Sansa out of the cramped wheelhouse that had been her home for the past few days. There were a lot of people standing outside, waiting to welcome their lord back to his keep, and perhaps to welcome her, too?

Lady came to her, looking a little dirty from the road but none the worse for having kept up with the horses all day. Sansa scratched her familiar behind the ears and ignored the slightly intimidated looks the people who had gathered to greet them were shooting the direwolf. Lady was a gentle, well-behaved wolf and Sansa knew that no one would be frightened of her once they got to know her.

Lord Stannis introduced Sansa as the new Lady of Storm’s End, his authoritative voice carrying well as no one was speaking. He asked that she would be made comfortable and welcome, and said that he expected everyone to show her the same amount of respect and obedience as they had shown to Lady Selyse. Sansa stood still, trying to keep her back straight and her chin up, and hoped she didn’t appear too dishevelled. It felt very strange to be introduced as the lady of the keep. That had always been her mother, not her. But now Sansa was on equal footing with Lady Catelyn Stark; a fine lady of a noble House, married to a powerful lord. She could hardly wrap her mind around the notion.

Shireen came forward, executed a passable curtsey, and gave Sansa shy smile. There was sadness in her eyes, however, and Sansa wondered if she still mourned her lady mother. Sansa felt certain that she would still be mourning if she were in Shireen’s place.

Stannis clapped Shireen awkwardly on the shoulder and nodded at her. He really was not one for emotional displays, Sansa thought, feeling a little sorry for Shireen. Sansa’s father was not really one for emotional displays either, but under these circumstances she felt certain he would have at least given her a hug.

“Get to it, then,” Stannis said, addressing the servants and looking irritated by the stillness and silence of his household.

Once he had spoken there was a flurry of noise and activity as servants started to unload luggage and carry it inside, horses were led to the stables, orders were shouted, and conversation was struck up here and there.

Stannis sent Shireen away without allowing Sansa time to speak with her, and a man Sansa heard Stannis greet as Ser Cortnay Penrose started talking to him. At the same time, a maid curtseyed to Sansa, offering to take her to her chambers and help her get ready for the welcome feast. Sansa was just agreeing to the plan when she heard Stannis exclaim in irritation.

“A welcome feast is an unnecessary expense!”

“The arrangements have been made. It would be wasteful to cancel at this point, my lord,” Ser Cortnay said with a grimace.

“I realise that,” Stannis barked.

Sansa gestured for the maid to wait and went over to her husband and very tentatively placed a hand on his upper arm to gain his attention. “Is everything in order, my lord?”

Stannis appeared startled for a moment, but recovered quickly. “My castellan has arranged for a welcome feast tonight,” he explained brusquely.

“Of course he did,” Sansa said, giving Ser Cortnay a smile, “it’s only proper.”

“It’s an absurd waste!” Stannis growled harshly, glaring daggers at her. She balked and removed her hand from his arm, taking a step back and almost treading on Lady’s paws.

“Oh,” she said, sounding a little frightened even to her own ears. She tried to gather her courage, but it was difficult with Stannis looking so _angry._ She took a deep breath and thought of the way Stannis always carried the handkerchief she had made on his person, and the way he had always made sure he had it before leaving whatever cold, uncomfortable room they had been staying in the night before. She felt a little more confident as she remembered her husband’s careful treatment of her favour and spoke without letting her voice betray her trepidation. 

“But if it is too late to do anything about it, surely there is no reason to be angry?” 

Despite her increased confidence she was using all of her willpower to prevent herself from taking another step away from him. _He promised not to harm me,_ she reminded herself firmly.

Stannis frowned at her and then at Ser Cortnay.

“You’re dismissed, ser,” Stannis said, addressing his castellan. Ser Cortnay did not hesitate to make himself scarce.

Stannis sighed and glowered at her for a moment. “Go get dressed,” Stannis barked. Sansa curtseyed and was turning to leave when Stannis grabbed her arm in a very rude way, preventing her from going. Lady immediately changed her relaxed stance into a more threatening one, and seemed on the verge of growling at Stannis. Sansa touched her soothingly, petting her and hoping she would relax again. It would not do for her to make a bad impression. Stannis had already released the rude - albeit painless - hold on her arm and as Sansa soothed Lady she told herself he had not meant to be so abominably discourteous. He must simply have temporarily forgotten his manners.

“I would join you in your chamber this night. After the feast. Unless you have objections?” Stannis asked, his sentences clipped and his tone somehow both forceful and uncertain at the same time.

Her husband’s sudden change of subject took her by surprise and she blinked at him for longer than she knew was polite, digging her hands into Lady’s dusty fur for comfort before being able to answer him. He was scowling at her and Sansa did not know if she wanted him in her bed if he was going to remain in this foul mood for the rest of the evening, but it was his right to bed her if and when he wished. The fact that he was even asking her permission was… unexpected.

“I - no. No objections, my lord.”

Stannis nodded, noting her acceptance. Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she saw a flash of relief in his eyes.

Her heart was racing and she felt terribly confused. If Stannis wanted to lie with her on their very first night in his keep did that mean he desired her very much? But if he desired her to such an extent, why had he not attempted to take her while they had been travelling? Was it only because of what he had said on the morning after their wedding about not expecting her to lie with him until they were at Storm’s End? He really was a man of his word, if that was the case. 

But perhaps it was not desire that was making him want to lie with her? He had certainly not seemed to be looking at her as if he desired her. He had been looking at her like an annoyance, and he had glared and _barked_ and grabbed her arm in a very rude way. Duty, then, had to be the driving force behind his request. He was most likely anxious to begin trying for an heir.

That had to be it.

Stannis sent Lady to the kennelmaster to be cleaned and fed and escorted Sansa inside, but soon left her with the maid that had been following them at a polite distance, muttering something about maesters and ravens.

“The feast is due to begin soon, milady, but we were notified of your impending arrival so I took the liberty of having a bath prepared for you. I thought it might be just the thing after all your travel,” the maid said.

“Oh, thank you!” Sansa exclaimed in delight. After days and days of lukewarm hip baths at the most it would be wonderful to have a proper soak. “Will there be enough time, though?” she added, thinking the time it would take to dress her properly for a feast. Her hair alone would take an age if she was to wear a complicated southron style.

“Leave it to me and the other maids. We’ll make sure you’re ready and presentable on time, milady.”

***

Stannis did not bother with trying to hide his annoyance at the elaborate feast Ser Cortnay had organised. He was very pleased to be back at Storm’s End, but he had hoped for a quiet night. He had wanted to have a long bath, write some letters, have a proper conversation with Ser Jon, and then visit his wife’s chambers.

The past nights of sharing Sansa’s bed but not _having_ her had been pure torment. He hoped Sansa was no longer afraid of him, and felt reasonably certain that she wasn’t as she had not been shrinking tearfully from his touch or squeaking like a mouse. Sansa had not seemed entirely pleased when he had asked for her leave to visit her chambers, but she had acquiesced readily enough. Perhaps he should have waited to ask, but it had been nearly a fortnight since their wedding, and he wanted the release he had been denying himself. He was irritated with himself for being so strongly driven by his lustful impulses, but he was sure things would settle down once he was no longer sleeping beside the girl every night. Without her tempting form within easy reach he would be able to regain control.

He wasn’t sure whether she looked more desirable with her hair loose and nothing on but a simple shift, or as she was now, bedecked in a fine gown with precious stones glittering at her throat reflecting the flickering light of the feast hall. Her hair seemed to be arranged in a simple northern fashion from what little he knew of such things, and he found he preferred it that way. It had obviously been brushed until it shone and the thick copper sheet swayed whenever she took a step or moved her head; making her fiery locks resemble a true living flame.

Perhaps later she would allow him to run his fingers through her hair again? She had _seemed_ to enjoy it…

“My lord?”

Stannis snapped out of his reverie and noticed Ser Cortnay hovering nearby.

“What is it?” he barked, having no patience left to spare for his castellan.

“Maester Cressen has informed me that a raven has just now arrived from King’s Landing. It appears to be from your brother the king, my lord.” _As if he had any other brothers now that Renly was gone._

Stannis sighed, glanced at Sansa and Shireen, and decided that it did not seem as if his wife was likely to start tormenting his daughter while he went to attend to the matter of the raven. To his relief they seemed quite at ease with one another. He did not know what he would do if Sansa treated his daughter cruelly…

Ser Cortnay cleared his throat surreptitiously to gain his attention and Stannis immediately started to rise from his seat. With things as they were in the north it was better to read any messages from his brother sooner rather than later. It might be urgent.

It wasn’t.

His brother had sent word that Queen Margaery was still not showing any sign of being with child. He had then urged Stannis to remember their conversation and do as he was told.

Stannis made a disgusted sound and burnt the missive. He had not exactly needed the reminder. Robert’s words had been ringing in his ears ever since they had been spoken, and wielded as swords by the part of him that was base and revolting while in bed with Sansa. Thankfully he had been able to restrain himself, but he’d had a few near misses. It might have been easier to keep himself to himself if Sansa hadn’t continually sought him out as they slept, pressing her soft curves against him and making attractive little noises. He was quite certain he hadn’t felt aroused so often over such a short span of time since he had been a callow youth.

He’d have her tonight. She had raised no objections and she would know to expect him, but first he needed to sit through this infernal feast of Ser Cortnay’s.

Stannis heaved a great sigh and strode back to the feast hall, trying to think how long he would have to stay before it would be deemed acceptable for him to retire.

***

Sansa was enjoying the feast, and she did not understand what her husband had against it. Perhaps he simply liked to make a point of detesting everything most people liked?

It was nice to get a chance to greet Shireen properly, and they had sat together as dinner had been served, getting reacquainted with each other. Sansa was pleased to have Shireen to talk to as Stannis was certainly not making conversation, and the girl was really such good company. Shireen was very quiet and shy, but Sansa had spent some time with her in King’s Landing before Lady Selyse had died, and found her to be a perfectly lovely girl. Her unfortunate scars and homely appearance did not make her any less agreeable in Sansa’s opinion. She did feel rather strange about being her new mother, however, as Shireen was Arya’s age. She found herself wondering if Shireen did not feel that it was strange as well.

Sansa took the opportunity to ask her when Stannis left to receive a raven from the king.

“This must be peculiar for you,” Sansa said, making sure her voice did not carry to anyone but Shireen.

“What do you mean?” Shireen asked, looking puzzled.

Sansa clarified her meaning, wincing when she had to refer to herself as Shireen’s new mother.

“It is a little, but I think it will be nice to have you here. You’re always so kind,” Shireen answered, ducking her head to hide a pink blush.

“I won’t try to act as your mother,” Sansa promised, blushing as well.

“I suppose that would be odd,” Shireen said with a slightly nervous smile and sadness in her gaze. Sansa thought it had to be because she had mentioned Selyse.

“But I hope we will be friends,” Sansa said tentatively, giving Shireen a nervous smile of her own in return.

“I’d like that,” Shireen whispered, a pleased light replacing the sadness in her eyes. Sansa got the feeling Shireen did not have very many friends.

They smiled at each other for a moment, shared understanding passing between them.

The moment passed and Sansa cast about for a suitable topic of conversation. “Do you sew at all?” she asked.

“Only a little, I’m not very proficient,” Shireen said.

“I could teach you, if you’d like?” 

Shireen nodded, but looked a little chagrined. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to get me to make better stitches than my mother could. I’m all thumbs!”

“My sister is the same. It’s really all a matter of practise, so I’m sure you could improve if you gave it time, but we don’t have to sew together if that’s not what you like doing,” Sansa said, thinking that if Shireen was like Arya she would probably only resent Sansa if she forced her to spend hours on sewing projects that held no interest for her. “What do you usually do to pass the time?”

Shireen told her about the books she liked to read, about the fool Patches and her friend Edric Storm, about her studies with Maester Pylos and about how much better she liked exploring Storm’s End than Dragonstone.

Sansa was listening in rapt fascination as Shireen recounted her favourite story regarding the Dance of the Dragons when Stannis returned, looking even more irritated than when he had left. It was as if the Lord of Storm’s End had a storm cloud over his head, threatening to shoot bolts of lightning at anyone who dared disturb him.

Sansa sighed and prayed that he would not be so disgruntled in the bedchamber. She did not relish the thought of feeling the same sort of pain she had felt on her wedding night, and Stannis did not seem to be in a generous mood at all. It seemed unlikely that he would wish to hold her, stroke her hair, or do much of anything to make her feel welcome or lessen her discomfort.

She squared her shoulders and decided to hope that his mood would improve. There was not much else she could do, after all.

***

Sansa didn’t know how much time she had before Lord Stannis came to her. Her handmaids had just left, after having helped with the removal of her gown, the brushing of her hair, and various other such things. It had pleased Sansa that her things had already been unpacked and put away neatly, but when the maids had brought forth a selection of nightgowns for Sansa to choose from she had been momentarily confused. She did not recognise a single one of them as her own. The nightgowns were all scandalously small, made of thin silk and flimsy ribbons. Sansa had almost told the maids that they must have unpacked the wrong luggage, but then she had recognised the fabric of one of the nightgowns; it was precisely the same sort of silk her wedding smallclothes had been made from. Sansa blushed to the roots of her hair as she realised that her mother must have had these nightgowns made, and she had hurried to ask the maids for a simple shift instead. She could not imagine wearing anything quite so scandalous for her husband.

The maids had not so much as raised an eyebrow at Sansa’s request, and in general they had been pleasant and efficient. Sansa still thought it was strange to be surrounded by young women she did not know. She was struggling to match the right names with the right faces, and though they were polite and respectful they did not evoke the same sense of ease as her old maids. Hopefully it would come with time, but she couldn’t help feeling bereft nonetheless. She wished Lady were awake so that she might take comfort in placing her arms around the great wolf, but her familiar was curled up near the hearth, fast asleep.

Stannis had escorted her from the feast when his patience for the ruckus of the hall had run out, but before that time she had been able to meet quite a lot of people, eat delicious food, drink lovely wine, and even dance a little. Shireen and Jon had been most helpful, and Stannis had eventually risen to the occasion - despite his mood - and introduced her to some of the more important people at the feast. Even though she was quite exhausted after all the travel, the quick bath, the rushed way she had been obliged to dress, the feast with all its demands on her attention span and energy, she was wide awake and nowhere near relaxed enough to fall asleep.

What would Stannis do if he came to her and she was asleep? Would he take offence? Would he simply wake her and get on with… things? She was relieved that she was unlikely to find out on this night as she feared that he might say something dreadful to her if it ever happened.

She decided to wait for him in bed and was comforted to note that the mattress was not lumpy in the least and quite soft, but couldn’t decide whether to lie down completely or prop herself up with some pillows into a more seated position. After deliberating the two options for much too long, she decided on the latter.

On the whole Sansa was very pleased with her chambers and with what she had seen of Storm’s End. It truly was a magnificent keep, and Sansa understood why Stannis was proud of it. She had not really thought about what her chambers would be like, but she had been surprised at how generously proportioned they were. She looked forward to seeing her solar and wondered if it would also be so spacious.

Aside from the comfortable feather bed, her chambers boasted the hearth Lady was curled up in front of, windows that she had not seen properly as the heavy velvet curtains had been drawn when she had arrived, a small, ornately carved wooden table and two matching chairs, a bench covered with soft furs and feather pillows, a sideboard, a handsome chest, a large vanity, and a beautiful wardrobe. There were nightstands on either side of the bed and colourful tapestries on the smooth walls. The floor was mostly covered with woven rugs of the highest quality, but there were soft sheepskins in front of the hearth and by the bed. Sansa could just barely glimpse a corner of the sheepskin that Lady was lying on. There was wine and fruit on the small table, along with silver cups to drink from, and a vase of fresh wildflowers.

As she contemplated her new surroundings she started to consider whether she ought to _practise_ a little to prepare and relax herself. Her husband’s attentions were sure to be more painful if she remained as tense and apprehensive as she was. Would she have time? What if Stannis entered her chambers without knocking and caught her at it? She wasn’t sure it was something he would approve of and she doubted she would ever dare ask him about it. 

She decided not to attempt it.

Sansa was still sitting in bed, tense and a little frightened, her brow furrowed in concentration, when there was a firm knock that was most definitely not coming from the door to her chambers. It was emanating from an old looking tapestry depicting ships on a stormy ocean that hung on the wall opposite her bed, and Sansa blinked at it in confusion.

“May I enter, my lady?” Lord Stannis’ voice sounded from behind the tapestry; muffled as if by a door.

It had to a be a secret passage! There was a hidden door behind the tapestry.

“You may, my lord,” she hurried to say, not wanting to irritate him by keeping him waiting.

There was a metallic sound as a key was turned and a slight creak of wood and then Stannis was moving the tapestry out of the way, stepping into the room. He was wearing a very fine onyx robe, but his chest appeared to be bare underneath. 

Her heart was beating at a very rapid pace, and her mouth felt curiously dry. They would be setting a precedent tonight for their future interactions and Sansa was anxious for everything to go well.

“I hadn’t realised there was a door there,” she said, biting her lip.

“The passage connects to the lord’s chamber,” Stannis explained, his voice a little hoarse. His eyes were fixed on her face, but she got the feeling that he was curious about what she was wearing. Her shift was hidden by the bedclothes for the most part, and she couldn’t muster the bravery to push them out of the way to show him how she looked.

“Am I allowed to use the passage?” Sansa asked, relaxing a little when Stannis seemed content to stand by the bed and did not show any inclination to attack her. He did not exactly look _pleased,_ but she was relieved to note that he did not seem to have brought his storm cloud with him.

Stannis furrowed his brow and gave her a sharp look. “The door is generally locked.” Stannis explained that he had the sole key. A lord’s privilege.

She nodded in understanding, feeling that it was a little unfair that he could barge in on her whenever he wanted, but that she would not be able to do the same to him. There was not much to be done about it at the present moment, however, so she put it out of her mind.

“Are your chambers to your liking?” Stannis asked, still standing by the bed and looking vaguely out of place.

“They’re beautiful,” Sansa gave him a genuine smile, “thank you, my lord.”

Stannis jerked his head in an odd sort of nod.

“I particularly like the flowers,” Sansa offered with a faint blush. She doubted Stannis had been responsible for them, but she thought she ought to tell him just the same.

“Shireen left some in my chambers as well,” Stannis muttered, looking away from her for a moment.

“I must remember to thank her,” Sansa said, speaking to herself as much as to Stannis, “she’s made me feel so welcome.”

Stannis searched her face intently, his entire body tense. After a moment he relaxed slightly and nodded. 

There was an awkward stretch of silence. “Storm’s End is such an impressive keep,” she said in an attempt to fill it, noticing how Stannis stood up a little straighter as she complimented the castle, “I look forward to seeing it properly tomorrow.” It would most likely look different in the daylight, though no less magnificent, Sansa was sure.

“I won’t have time tomorrow to show you everything there is to be seen, but I have asked Ser Cortnay to assist you,” Stannis said stiffly. His eyes were straying below her neck more and more, though he always dragged them back up to resolutely look at her face.

Did he intend to stand by her bed for the rest of the night?

Gathering her courage she took a deep breath and forced her lips into a courteous smile. “Won’t you join me, my lord?” she said, bowing her head.

Stannis inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring and his jaw working, but he didn’t say anything. He simply nodded and discarded his robe, carefully draping it over the back of one of the carved wooden chairs. He got into bed with her wearing nothing but simple breeches of a soft, comfortable looking fabric, but Sansa did not let her eyes linger below his waist, not wanting to know if he was aroused yet. Instead she busied herself with making herself comfortable on her back, fluffing her pillows and straightening her shift so it wouldn’t be all bunched up around her hips. She could feel Stannis watching her as he sat on the bed beside her, but ignored him until there was nothing left for her to do except meet his eyes.

He was observing her with a very serious look on his face, but his eyes were very dark, and though it was hard to tell in the firelight she was almost certain that he was a little flushed.

After what felt like a very long time of his staring she wondered whether there was some part of the procedure she was failing to perform. Was he waiting for her to do something? To say something?

“Are you going to kiss me, my lord?” she asked. She hadn’t entirely meant to say it out loud, but her uncertainty and the long silence had unnerved her and prompted her to speak.

“Should you like me to?” he said in a low voice, one eyebrow raised sceptically.

Sansa felt herself blush, but she nodded and licked her lips because they felt awfully dry. After hesitating for a moment, Stannis leant down to press his lips against hers. His scent and the feel of his lips caused a very strong memory of the kisses they had shared on their wedding night to overtake her, and her body seem to heat up and tingle because of it. Sansa parted her lips and Stannis immediately took advantage of the invitation, thrusting his tongue inside her mouth and licking at hers even as she tentatively licked back. It felt just as warm and wet and peculiar as it had last time, but it was enjoyable and she hoped he would have a bit more patience for it now.

Stannis moved to lie down next to her on his side so that he could continue to lean over her and kiss her, but his new position afforded him the freedom to move one of his hands over her, and he wasted no time finding a breast and grabbing at it roughly. A small squeak of discomfort escaped her, and Stannis froze; the kiss breaking, his hand coming to a rest.

“Please, my lord, more gently?” she asked softly, “I fear your grip is stronger than you know,” she added, not wanting him to think that she believed he was hurting her on purpose.

Stannis grunted and hesitantly started to fondle her breast less forcefully, watching her face for her reaction. She watched him in her turn and noticed that he looked a little chagrined, but also determined.

It was still not quite as gentle as she would have preferred, but it was a vast improvement, so she decided to encourage him by closing her eyes and breathing a soft, pleased sigh. Stannis paused for a moment at that, but quickly resumed his kneading movements and kissed her again. This second kiss was more aggressive than the first, and much more confident -- as if he were no longer worried that she might turn away. She tried to match his eagerness, but soon it was all she could do to keep breathing through her nose as he devoured her with an intensity Sansa had never seen or heard of. He reminded her of Grey Wind when Robb had been letting him run all day, drinking water as if his life depended on it. His whiskers were starting to chafe the soft skin around her mouth, but she found that she wasn’t overly concerned. The sensations his tongue was eliciting were fascinating, and combined with the way his fingers were now pulling at one of her nipples, she was starting to feel the familiar urge to rub against something. She knew that she was beginning to get wet and she knew the easiest way to get herself even _more_ wet would be to rub at that place just below her mound the way she had taught herself to.

Should she tell him that? No. She couldn’t possibly.

As if he had somehow read her mind, his hand moved from her breast, under her shift, and to her smallclothes, pushing them aside to probe at her intimately. He groaned when his fingers found her damp folds, and pressed the lower half of his body up to her, letting her feel how hard and ready he was. She gasped even though she knew to expect it and it seemed to spur him on.

Before she had a chance to think a coherent thought he was pulling her smallclothes off and pushing her shift up over her breasts; revealing her to his hungry gaze. He was already pulling on the laces of his breeches when she realised he was about to _start._

 _I’m not ready!_ she thought, desperately wondering what she could do to delay him.

Queen Margaery’s voice rang out inside Sansa’s head, repeating what she had said before Sansa’s wedding: _“If he tries to start before you feel prepared, ask him to kiss your breasts. Men like doing that, and it will feel good for you.”_

“I liked what you were doing before, my lord,” she said timidly, not quite daring to blurt out the request Margaery had suggested.

Stannis furrowed his brow in annoyance, looking up from his task of unlacing his breeches. “What?” he snapped.

Sansa swallowed nervously, wondering if she shouldn’t just keep quiet and let him do as he would.

 _But I’m not ready,_ a quiet, but very strong voice at the back of her mind said steadfastly. It would be better in the long run if she was brave now, she knew. He would not hurt her for speaking her mind; he was not a cruel man and he had _promised._

“Please, my lord, could you do it again?” she asked as sweetly as she could, looking up at him with wide eyes and probably blushing quite terribly.

When he did not seem to understand what she was asking for, she tentatively reached for one of his hands and brought it to an exposed breast. Her nipples had not puckered as the air in her chamber was quite warm, but as soon as his fingertips came into contact with one, she could feel it pebbling at his touch. He still seemed so surprised by her request and her boldness that his touch was feather-light and it felt teasing and _wonderful._ If he could just keep doing that for a little while longer she would be much more ready to do her duty.

“You… like this?” he rasped, looking at her with slightly narrowed eyes as if he suspected her of foul play.

“Should I not, my lord?” she asked nervously, wondering if she were doing something wrong. Had Queen Margaery been trying to set her up for failure? Were highborn ladies perhaps not supposed to enjoy this sort of thing? If so, then she was glad she still hadn’t worked up the nerve to suggest Margaery’s actual idea.

“It’s fine,” he said, reddening as he reached for her other nipple, both of his hands occupied now. He glanced at her face, still looking very suspicious, but she genuinely liked the way he was touching her now, and kept her eyes closed and her lips parted to show her pleasure.

After much too short a while she heard Stannis exhale loudly and felt him let go of her breasts in order to resume his work at the laces of his breeches.

Why was he so impatient? She almost wanted to huff out an annoyed breath and pout at him. But highborn ladies did not huff and pout at their husbands.

“Would it be terrible improper if… “ she trailed off, losing her nerve halfway through her sentence. She winced as soon as it happened, remembering that he disliked when she did that.

“If what, girl?” he growled, pausing his work and glaring at her.

He only called her girl when he was annoyed with her. Hopefully Queen Margaery had not been playing a trick, because she couldn’t back out now.

“If you kissed my - um - where you were just touching me, my lord?” she stammered, blushing even more violently than before.

Stannis blinked at her several times, swallowing noticeably and breathing rather irregularly.

He didn’t answer her question regarding the propriety of what she was suggesting. Instead he brought his head to her breasts slowly, giving her a wary, suspicious look for as long as his eyes could meet hers -- as if he expected her to suddenly start laughing at him.

The moment his lips brushed against the peak of one of her breasts, the whiskers around his mouth brushing against the highly sensitive pink skin, a shockingly hot sensation shot from her breast and downwards to her centre where the pleasure usually built when she ‘practised’. It was like being tickled, but completely different. An involuntary moan escaped her, and she felt Stannis respond to the sound by raising his head up to look at her. She opened her eyes to stare at him, her lips parted into a surprised ‘o’.

“That felt even better than your hands, my lord,” she said breathlessly, hardly able to believe it.

Stannis was quite flushed and he kept staring into her eyes for much longer than she was comfortable with, clearly trying to gauge her truthfulness. She forced herself to meet his gaze, despite the way it made her blush and want to squirm around in discomfort. Finally, he seemed to believe her, and he bent to do it again. _Thank the gods!_

At first he kissed her carefully, going from the peak of one breast to the other and using his fingers to pinch and pull at the one he wasn’t kissing, but soon he seemed emboldened by her - only slightly exaggerated - moans of pleasure, and he started to lick hesitantly. His hot tongue sent fresh pulses of heat through her, increasing the wet sensation between her thighs. She could tell that soon she would be as ready as she would ever be. She was about to tell him something to that effect when he suddenly started to suckle at the nipple he had been licking, making her squeak in surprise and mild embarrassment. She hadn’t realised a man would want to suckle as a baby would, and she definitely had not expected it to feel so _good._ It was almost too intense a pleasure for her to bear.

“Oh, _my lord!_ ” she exclaimed, half in surprise and half in pleasure.

Her words seemed to remind him of the duty they were supposed to be performing, for he let go of her and finished taking his breeches off at last. She caught a brief glimpse of his manhood - looking just as she had remembered it: large, red and angry with a lot of curly black hair at the base - before he situated himself on top of her and started to rub himself against her. It felt rather pleasant now that she was so wet and eager for friction, and she tried to accommodate him by spreading her thighs as well as she could.

Without any warning at all, Stannis reached down and guided himself to her entrance, pushing forwards immediately after finding the right place. There was a moment of discomfort, and he needed a few sharp thrusts to sheathe himself completely, but it was done much more quickly than the first time. She made a small wordless noise of surprise when she realised that there had hardly been any pain.

It was a good thing, too, as Stannis wasted no time allowing her to get used to the _fullness_ and the feel of his girth stretching her open. He started to thrust rhythmically at once, breathing loudly at first and soon starting to grunt with each effort. The rare hints of pleasure she had felt on their wedding night were more than hints now, but there was also noticeable discomfort. Her mother had said that was normal the first few times, however, so Sansa tried not to worry about it and focused on the things that felt good instead.

She was struck by the very _physical_ nature of this act, and felt very aware of every part of her body that was in contact with Stannis -- not just the place where they were joined. His skin was very warm, his muscles hard, and she could feel his hip bones digging into her a little sharply. His scent filled her nose and the air he expelled from his lungs tickled her face upon his every exhalation. (She was quite relieved his breath was fresh and pleasant.) Sansa focused on Stannis’ face, enjoying the reappearance of the slack-jawed look of pleasure he had worn the last time. He was flushed and sweaty, but he looked like he was experiencing the kind of pleasure that she couldn’t hope to understand. Seeing that look again caused her to somehow clench up inside and Stannis actually _moaned,_ opening his eyes to give her a brief, incredulous look. 

How curious it was to be able to reduce a powerful lord - a brother of a king! - to such a state… 

This time when Stannis sped up Sansa knew it meant he was close to the end, and she tried to control her breathing even though the urge to pant was becoming very strong. She lost the battle when Stannis suddenly grabbed her legs and pushed them up until she was folded in two with her knees close to her chest. He seemed to want to hold on to her legs for leverage as he increased the pace and force of his thrusts, creating loud smacking sounds each time their bodies met. The change in angle had the unexpected effect of making the jolts of pleasure she could feel stronger and more frequent, and she could almost completely forget about her discomfort as she concentrated on the jolts, feeling how they seemed to add to the hot coiling sensation that she knew was an essential part of her release. 

Sansa wanted to tell him that she liked the change in their position, but all she could manage were little gasps and moans that she doubted he would be able to hear over the harsh guttural sounds he was making. Eventually he sped up to a frantic, irregular pace - just as he had the first time they had lain together - until he was pushing his manhood as deep inside of her as it would go, groaning a little like Jon, Robb and Theon sometimes used to when they had been dealt painful blows in the training yard. 

He was still for a very long moment, but thankfully he wasn’t resting all of his weight on her this time so she could breathe easily. She was relieved when he pulled away to lie next to her, nonetheless, as it allowed her to put her legs down into a more dignified position. 

Sansa could hardly believe how much easier this had been compared with the first time. 

If her duty as a wife continued to become more comfortable each time, she could imagine that perhaps she would be able to reach the kind of peak she was able to when she ‘practised’ with her husband one day. It was a heartening thought that made Sansa feel like the business of making an heir might actually become quite to her liking. At the very least it could become something that she would be able to tolerate quite well. 

And then maybe Stannis would like her better? 


	9. Fever

It did not take very long for Stannis to gain control of his breathing, but he could not face the challenge of moving from Sansa’s bed to his own quite as soon. His body felt heavy with sexual satisfaction, and his muscles felt like soggy bread under his skin.

Though his body was sated his mind was in a state of mild shock. Either Sansa was a very talented mummer or she was no longer afraid of him at all. She had wanted him to kiss her again and she had _encouraged_ him to fondle her teats. She had even invited him to kiss the perfect pink peaks and she had appeared to _enjoy_ it. She had been _wet_ when he entered her. Not just a little moist, but actually _wet._ If she weren’t still tight as a maiden he imagined he would have slid easily inside of her.

All of it was much too good to be true, but he could not sense any dishonesty or manipulation in her. She had truly seemed to desire his touch. He could usually always tell when people were being false or sycophantic and he had never sensed such things from Sansa. The constant excessive courtesy even seemed genuine coming from her, while most ladies of her beauty and standing used their courteous smiles and polite words to hide their viper’s tongues and vicious natures.

Could it be that she really just liked it when he kissed her and touched her in that manner? 

It might have been easier to believe if he were a handsome man or some sort of gifted lover, but no one had ever described him as comely and Selyse had certainly never praised his skills in the bedchamber. Not that he had ever made much of an effort with her as she had never welcomed his advances beyond spreading her legs for him.

Sansa seemed to welcome him with every part of her being, yielding perfectly and accepting him without a sneer or a complaint. And seven hells, but being inside a properly wet, warm woman was _glorious_. He found himself looking forward to the next time he would be able to reasonably take her, even though it was only minutes since his release. Would it be unreasonable to sleep in her bed and take her as soon as they woke?

“Was I to your liking, my lord?” Sansa suddenly asked, her soft voice breaking the silence that had reigned since he had stopped filling the chamber with his embarrassing grunts. He wished he could better control the noises he made, but the pleasure of taking Sansa was still too new and overwhelming for him to have a hope of suppressing them. He also wished she wouldn’t ask him such questions. In his current state they were difficult to answer without unravelling completely and resorting to undignified worshipful words of praise. It was never a good idea to allow a woman to believe that men would fall at her feet as if she were a goddess. He saw Cersei Lannister’s smug smile in his mind’s eye for a moment and clenched his jaw in annoyance. How much better off would the Seven Kingdoms be if men had not acted like such fools in her presence? He did not mourn her.

“Yes,” he said simply, hoping his raw voice would not be able to betray too much if he spoke only a single, short word.

“I liked it, too.”

Stannis couldn’t help himself; he rose to one elbow and turned to look at his wife. He had to see her face. She blinked up at him, looking relaxed and unmistakably pleased, though her expression was quickly changing to show mild confusion as he stared at her.

“My lord?”

He opened his mouth to demand that she tell him exactly what she had liked, wanting to catch her in the lie he was certain she was telling, but the genuinely puzzled look in her eyes made him close his mouth again without saying a word.

“Was I not supposed to, my lord?” she asked, a delicate crease between her brows denoting her worry and confusion, a faint pink tinge appearing along her high cheekbones.

How was he supposed to answer _that?_ He slowly eased himself back until he was lying down with his head on the pillow. He was not entirely sure he could meet her eyes as he attempted to answer her question.

“Women don’t always… enjoy… er,“ he started, feeling ridiculous.

“But it’s not improper that I do, my lord?” she interrupted anxiously, clearly unable to wait for him to awkwardly find his words. She had risen up to lean over him, looking at him with her wide blue eyes, worrying at her bottom lip. The hand she had placed on his chest for balance and support felt searing hot, and for a moment her touch caused him to forget what they were talking about.

“Improper…?” he repeated hoarsely, trying to gather his wits, “no, my lady.” He managed to finish the sentence decisively, and his denial appeared to put Sansa at ease. She rested her head at the hollow of his shoulder, fitting her body into the space between his torso and his arm in a way that encouraged him to hold her, and the hand on his chest started to move; her fingers playing with the hairs that grew there.

It felt good to hold her close; satisfying in a way that had nothing to do with his cock and everything to do with how she did not flinch away from his touch. On the contrary, she seemed quite content to be held. After a little while he tentatively started to run his fingers through her long - slightly tangled - hair, holding his breath and listening for her reaction, exhaling only when he heard an encouraging noise from her. It felt just as soothing as it had the last time he had done it, and he felt inordinately pleased by her acceptance of his touch.

She did not stay still for very long, however, and as he assumed she needed the privy, he did not comment when she climbed out of bed and borrowed his robe. He might have used the time to clean himself up at Sansa’s washbasin, find and don his breeches, but he felt languid and sleepy and in no particular rush.

He was asleep before Sansa returned to bed.

When he woke he was very confused. Sansa appeared to be quite naked in his arms, and he was neither in an uncomfortable roadside inn nor in his own bed at Storm’s End. Where was he? Why was no one wearing any clothing?

It took him several moments to remember that he was in Sansa’s chambers, that he had visited her after the welcome feast to lie with her, and that he had fallen asleep after the fact. He must have been exceptionally weary to allow himself to do so...

Sansa moved in her sleep, bringing his attention to the pressure of his stiff cock and drawing an involuntary groan from him. They were both lying on their sides and her back was facing his front. His nose was buried in her hair which carried a heady, sweet scent, and his cock was pressed up to her rump in a way that only served to make him harder than he already was. He wanted to wake her and feel her warmth again. She had said that she liked his attentions last night - unless he had dreamt that - so perhaps she would not object if he asked her?

A part of him grumbled something about not using her to slake his lust and something about her being a highborn lady - his wife - too precious to be treated like a tavern wench. Another part could not help but be suspicious of how welcoming she had been, but his thoughts seemed oddly far away and unimportant next to the insistent pressure of his arousal, and he was already naked in bed with her, was he not? She had not woken him up to banish him back to his chamber when she had found him asleep, and that had to mean that she was not opposed to his presence.

He would wake her. Thinking it over, he decided to start by moving the arm that was wrapped around her middle, allowing his hand to trail over her naked skin under the covers, revelling in the feel of her softness, pausing perhaps for much too long at her teats, and eventually reaching her face. He touched her lips briefly with the tips of his fingers and felt her respond by parting them and breathing warm air on his hand. 

Stannis was certain he would have woken up by now had he been in Sansa’s place, but she seemed to be utterly unconscious.

“My lady?” he murmured, trying to be patient. Sansa buried her face in her pillow, mumbling something he did not understand.

She woke up when he shook her shoulder.

“Stannis?” she mumbled groggily, forgetting her courtesies for once. He did not mind her using his given name in private, however. He quite liked the way the syllables sounded on her tongue.

“I wish to take you,” he declared hoarsely, “do you object?”

“Oh,” she breathed sounding startled, “um, no…” she said shyly, her voice still full of sleep.

It was tentative permission at best, but it was enough. A shudder of need moved through him and he moved his free hand to the nearest teat, fondling the soft flesh as his breathing became more and more excited. Without knowingly meaning to do it he was moving his hips; rubbing his cock against the naked skin of her rear much too eagerly, pressing it forwards until it was parting her buttocks slightly. His behaviour was not at all dignified, nor were the groans that were escaping him, but he found that he did not care. It felt _wonderful_ and Sansa did not seem to dislike the attention so he felt no urge to stop. In fact, he felt the urge to kiss her neck, so he moved her hair and started to kiss her lightly at first, but quickly increased the pressure and used his tongue to taste her soft skin as he pinched one of her nipples.

“Oh - mm - my lord!” Sansa moaned, sounding a little shocked. She remained pliant in his arms, however, so he assumed she was not so shocked at his behaviour that she wished him to stop.

He moved his hand down from her teat to the opening between her legs, feeling pleased when she parted her thighs to make it easier for him to touch her, and felt around to ascertain whether she was wet. He moaned when he found that his fingers slid easily in the moisture she had produced and was gratified to hear her sigh with pleasure. He decided to see if she would like it if he dipped a finger inside of her and quickly pushed his longest finger in, not affording himself the time to change his mind.

“Oh!” she gasped, and he felt her soft, wet walls squeeze his finger.

Feeling suddenly too impatient to continue and wanting to feel her squeeze his cock like that, he pulled his finger out, moved out of the way so that she would have space to lie on her back and climbed on top of her, feeling almost dizzy with desire. Sansa brought her knees towards her chest without his prompting, but he didn’t really consider the significance of it until much later. All he knew was that she was exposing herself thoroughly to him and making it easier for him to push into her. She was not quite as wet as she had been the evening before, but it was not difficult to work himself in to the hilt, and as soon as he began to thrust he was almost certain that she was producing more moisture, making it easier for him to slide in and out.

He was almost too wrapped up in the bliss of being inside her to notice the sounds she was making, but a particularly loud moan caught his attention and made him curious enough to open his eyes to observe her. 

What he saw made him groan in pleasure and speed up.

Her head was thrown back, her lips were parted, her eyes were closed and her brow was furrowed in clear concentration. But every time he filled her she made a sound of pleasure, her lips forming a little ‘o’ and her forehead smoothing out briefly. 

She liked his cock.

There was no earthly way for a lady like her to pretend to like this if she didn’t. Whores were trained for _years_ in pleasure houses to be able to trick men - which was one of the many reasons why he avoided them at all cost - and his wife had come to him an untouched maiden.

His thoughts combined with the look on Sansa’s face, the sounds she was making and the feel of her _squeezing_ him added up to _too much_. He shut his eyes tightly and let himself go; his thrusts becoming frenzied and uncontrolled, his undignified grunts turning into drawn out moans, and a primal urge compelling him to go deeper and deeper overtaking him as his sac tightened up in preparation of spilling his seed.

When his release washed over him he could have sworn he saw stars, the pleasure of it burning as hot as a blacksmith’s fire, melting his spine and turning his muscles back into soggy bread even as he tried to support himself on his shaky arms.

He couldn’t have moved to save his life, but that was apparently not a problem as Sansa seemed perfectly happy to have him right where he was. Judging by the little mewling noises she was making, and the way she was rocking her hips, he was relatively certain that she was using him to pleasure herself, though he couldn’t quite believe it. He was forced to believe it, however, when her mewls turned into sounds of frustration when his cock inevitably softened and he pulled away.

She would have liked _more?_

She followed him and trapped one of his thighs in between hers and continued her small rocking movements, whimpering softly and needily. It felt strange and a little uncomfortable due to the wet mess that was seeping out of her, and because he didn’t quite know why she was doing it. He was not an _imbecile_ so he knew that some women were supposed to be able to find sexual pleasure and release that compared with the pleasure of men, and he knew men generally took pride in being able to bring that sort of pleasure about. But it had not been something Selyse had ever sought from him, and he had no further experience with women. He had no idea how to proceed with a woman who apparently _did_ want something more from him. Surely this wasn’t… surely this couldn’t be right?

He decided to remain still for the time being and see whether she would continue or desist.

After a little while she made another small frustrated sound and rolled away to lie on her back. She did not seem to be able to remain still, however, as she was squirming noticeably around.

Perhaps he had better leave. The quality of the light that was battling its way past the defenses of the heavy window curtains told him that it was already later than he usually rose.

“I must leave you, my lady,” he said, sitting up and looking down at her with awkward curiosity. She was flushed and her breathing was deep and much slower than he thought was entirely usual. When she opened her eyes they looked glazed and feverish, and she did not seem to want to open them the whole way, choosing instead to look up at him through half-lidded eyes. It was a look he had seen employed by beautiful ladies at court when they had been flirting with the objects of their dubious affections, but it was not a look that had very often been directed at him. Not this way. Not _successfully._

“Of course, my lord,” she said demurely, her voice hushed.

Feeling rather like a sailor without sea legs, he stood up and nearly yelped when Sansa’s direwolf stood up right in front of him. The beast tilted its head to the side and emitted a low whine as if to ask him what he had just been doing with its mistress. Swallowing and huffing out an annoyed breath at having been caught off guard, he ignored Lady, found his breeches and his robe and made his way to the lord’s chamber through the convenient passageway that connected Sansa’s chambers with his. The key was right where he left it in the pocket of his robe, but he didn’t bother to lock the doors. He doubted Sansa would attempt to visit him without asking. And if she did take it into her head to do such a thing... 

It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t.

He took a few moments to breathe and put Sansa’s strange behaviour out of his mind before he rang for hot water for his washbasin, wanting to clean up a little before starting his day.

There was much to be done, and Stannis would not have anyone comment on how disturbed and rattled he seemed. But no matter how many deep breaths he took, he could not shake the feeling that things had gone suspiciously well. 

Sansa had seemed to _enjoy_ his attentions and she had almost certainly seemed to want more before he had left her. It seemed highly strange that she would learn to accept his attentions so quickly; that she would go so easily from blood and tears to moans and sighs of pleasure.

He did not know what to think of it.

***

Sansa was touching herself as soon as the door behind the tapestry sounded as if it had shut. She had been so _close._ She had almost peaked when he had still been... but then he had stopped. She had not expected it to feel so good when it was only her third time, but there had been no discomfort, and the sensation of Stannis’ manhood moving within her had brought her nothing but pleasure. Lifting her knees to that peculiar cradling position seemed to allow Stannis’ body to align with hers in a way that just made everything _good._

Last night she had thought that Stannis might some day be able to bring her to her peak. Sansa now felt tentatively hopeful that this day was not too far off in the future.

It didn’t take her very long to bring herself back to the point of being close, but for some reason she couldn’t quite _finish._ What she usually did was not working and she was starting to feel tender and uncomfortable.

She made a desperate frustrated sound and turned to lie on her front, burying her face in a pillow.

Lady got on the bed, her bulk causing the mattress to dip noticeably. She curled up next to Sansa and licked her shoulder. Sansa giggled and turned her head to face Lady.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get up and let you out soon,” she said with a sigh, her giggles having faded away.

She’d just have to get her day started and hope that the next time her husband bedded her would be more fulfilling. As much as she wished she could simply be thankful for the fact that lying with Stannis had become pleasurable for the most part instead of painful and uncomfortable, it really was impossible to be thankful for anything with her body in the state it was in. She felt as if she were the string of a bow that had been pulled back to its fullest extent, ready to loose an arrow, yet there was no arrow, no bowman, and no hope of release in sight.

***

There was so much more to running a keep than Sansa had truly been able to grasp back in Winterfell. Her mother had made it look so effortless, but of course she had been surrounded by people she knew and trusted. Sansa was doing her best to learn names and match them to faces - she was usually quite good at that - but there were so _many_ and she was so _distracted._

Lady seemed very befuddled by Sansa’s behaviour, and she had more than once had to push the curious direwolf away as she attempted to sniff her in inappropriate places. Eventually Sansa had to ask a passing servant to take her to the kennelmaster. Hopefully the man would get someone to take Lady out for some exercise.

Whenever she thought she might be calming down, she would catch a glimpse of Lord Stannis going about his duties, or she would be reminded of him in some way, and the sensations and memories of the morning would be stirred up afresh. Each time this happened she was left with her face and chest flushed, her breathing shaky and her thighs nearly trembling.

Sansa was so on edge that when Lord Stannis joined her for their evening meal, she could barely muster a proper greeting.

“My lady,” he said with a brief nod, gesturing for her to take her seat before he did. They were not alone, of course, or Sansa might simply have thrown caution to the wind and begged her husband to finish what he had started. Instead she felt herself blush as she nodded in return and drew a slightly shuddering breath. “My lord,” she managed as she sat, her voice sounding almost inappropriately suggestive. She hadn’t meant for it to sound that way, but she was having such a difficult time breathing properly that her voice simply came out breathless no matter what she did.

Thankfully, Lord Stannis appeared to be so deep in thought that he barely noticed.

Shireen arrived shortly after she had taken her seat, escorted by a handsome lad with very dark hair. Sansa had met him earlier that day and knew him to be Edric Storm. She had liked him much better than the unnerving fool - Patchface - but Shireen had made it very clear that Patches was her friend, so Sansa had kept her unease regarding the strange creature to herself. She would not say anything about Shireen’s friend, but she would most certainly avoid him whenever she could. Edric saw Shireen to her seat next to her father, but did not take a seat in the vicinity himself. Instead he walked to a different table in the hall and took his place there.

It appeared that Stannis was not as deep in thought as Sansa had assumed, because he had clearly noticed the way Sansa had followed Edric with her eyes. He scowled at her and glared at Edric, looking suspicious and not at all pleased. Sansa hurried to busy herself with her food, not understanding why Stannis would look so displeased with her and wondering what Edric had done to deserve such a glare. Wasn’t Edric Stannis’ nephew? Soon Stannis went back to brooding rigidly over his own food, leaving Sansa to tentatively start looking around again.

There were many more people in the hall than Sansa assumed was usual, owing to the fact that many of the bannermen who had ridden to Storm’s End to welcome their lord back to his keep were still in attendance. The hall was well lit and warm, the tables were generously laden with food and drink, and conversation flowed easily; echoing off the smooth walls and the beautifully woven tapestries that decorated them.

Sansa spotted Jon at a table with several other knights and gave him a discreet wave, smiling brightly. She had seen him in the training yard earlier in the day, but he had been too focused on his sparring partner to spare her a glance. He spotted her now, however, and returned both her wave and her smile. Hopefully she would have time to speak to him soon. Maester Pylos, Ser Cortnay, the steward and the servants had been very helpful during the course of her day, but she found that she wished Jon would show her around the castle and tell her of his impressions. Surely his duties could not take up _all_ of his time?

Lord Stannis ate in silence for a while and Sansa and Shireen followed his example. The two girls exchanged a few companionable smiles as they ate, however, and Sansa was sure that Stannis noticed at least one such exchange. He seemed to become a little less tense afterwards and eventually he began to speak to Shireen about her lessons and the progress she was making, asking pointed questions and receiving shy answers. Sansa paid close attention, exerting quite a lot of effort to do so as her mind wanted to drift whenever Stannis spoke. Every word out of his mouth reminded her of the way he had hoarsely told her that he wished to take her that morning, and her heart was beating so hard at the memory that she was starting to wonder whether Stannis and Shireen wouldn’t be able to hear it soon.

“Did Maester Pylos and Ser Cortnay assist you today, my lady?” Stannis asked once the subject of Shireen’s lessons was exhausted, turning his piercing gaze on Sansa.

Sansa’s breath caught and she stared at her husband for a moment too long, blushing furiously. “Yes, my lord,” she choked out with difficulty when he started to look irritated.

“Maester Pylos helped me send a raven to King’s Landing, informing my family of our safe arrival,” she then said, each word taking a little less effort than the previous one, “and the steward - is his name not Aren Florent? - has showed me some of his ledgers.”

Stannis nodded to confirm that Sansa had remembered the name of the steward. “I have some time tomorrow. You could join me and Ser Cortnay in my solar after the midday meal to go over some of the finer points of your duties. Would that be agreeable?” he asked brusquely, raising an eyebrow at her.

Sansa hurried to nod and tried to get her breathing and her erratic heartbeat under control. Her entire body felt as if she had stepped too close to a great fire: nearly singed and much too warm.

“Did you get a chance to inspect the kitchens?” he asked, giving her another piercing look.

“Yes,” she said, not offering any more information as she barely remembered being in the kitchens.

“Florent has been going on about the pots needing replacing. Did they appear to be in substandard condition?”

Sansa blinked at him helplessly, blushing and trying to recall whether she had even seen a pot.

“Well?” Stannis snapped.

“I’m not certain, my lord,” Sansa said, feeling mortified that she was already failing in her duties.

Stannis looked irritated, but thankfully not very angry. “Go look again tomorrow,” he said curtly, finishing the last of his water and getting to his feet. 

Sansa knew that if she continued to feel the way she had felt all day, looking in the kitchens again tomorrow would not do her any good. She had to make certain that she would be able to concentrate, and that meant speaking to Stannis. She therefore got up right after her husband did, wanting a moment alone with him. Stannis seemed surprised at her willingness to follow him, looking pointedly at her half-finished meal and then sharply at her.

“I was hoping for a word, my lord,” she said quietly, reaching for his arm. He offered it, allowing her to tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow, and started to walk at a brisk pace. Once they were away from prying eyes he stopped and dropped the arm she had been holding onto, turning to face her.

“I have a great deal of correspondence to take care of,” he said impatiently, giving her a look that stated quite plainly that she should get on with saying what she had to say.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” Sansa said, feeling flustered and almost feverishly hot, “I only wondered if I should expect you in my chambers tonight?” she blurted out, too far gone to feel embarrassed about asking such a question.

Stannis looked as if he had been expecting her to say something quite different and blinked several times before clearing his throat and uttering a quick, “yes, my lady.” Two spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, making Sansa certain that Stannis was feeling rather flustered, too.

“Then I will await your arrival, my lord,” she said softly, dropping into a graceful curtsey and turning around to head back to the brightly lit hall they had just left. She was still hungry, and she was hoping that she would be able to focus on eating now that Stannis would no longer be sitting near her. Perhaps she would be able to talk to Jon, too…


	10. Suspicion

Stannis had read and responded to the most pressing letters on his desk and then moved to a comfortable den where a roaring fire blazed in a large hearth. He sat in one of the cushioned chairs that were placed just close enough to the hearth so that one could enjoy the warmth of the fire without risking one’s clothing going up in flames.

Why had he said yes? He had decided that he would _not_ finish the day in Sansa’s chamber, feeling both disconcerted by her seemingly easy acceptance of him and decidedly embarrassed about his lustful behaviour when they had woken up. It was unsupportable to expect his wife to accept his advances morning and night for days on end -- even if he _was_ trying to sire an heir. 

Even if she had seemed to enjoy it.

If Stannis weren’t absolutely certain that she had been a maiden he would be suspicious of how much she already seemed to enjoy his attentions. As it was, her enjoyment only made him uncomfortably aroused… and worried.

The way her eyes had followed Edric Storm at dinner had turned his blood to ice.

Sansa had seemed to want _more_ from him when he had taken her that morning. What if he could not give her all she wanted? Would she seek a younger man’s company? Take a lover that was more virile?

He could not stop himself grinding his teeth as he imagined Edric Storm cuckolding him. Robert would _howl_ with laughter if he found out. Perhaps that was what Robert had always intended? To give Stannis a young wife who would never be pleased with him and send her to live where Robert’s handsome young bastard also stayed…

Stannis would not allow it. He would **not.** He would simply have to go to Sansa and tell her exactly what would happen if she ever strayed or presumed to play him for a fool. And then perhaps he would take her assertively, and prove that he was all she would ever need. Perhaps she would even like it? A spark of pleasure made its way down his spine at the memory of the look on her face and the sounds she had produced that morning. She had definitely liked what he had done then, and the way she had _felt..._

It was something entirely new, different and vastly preferable to lie with a woman who genuinely appeared to be enjoying herself rather than just barely tolerating him.

He could not believe that she would continue to enjoy his attentions if he overindulged, however. She would begin to resent him if she felt he was taking advantage of her kindness, and eventually she would be sneering and refusing to meet his eyes as he did his duty with all due haste. It was probably inevitable, but it would happen much more quickly if he presumed to visit her every night.

So what had possessed him to say yes?

He hadn’t expected her to ask and he certainly hadn’t expected her to look at him so… hopefully? No. That couldn’t have been it. He was being absurd. But there had been something unusual about the way she had looked at him; her eyes had been very bright, her cheeks had been very pink, and her lips had been ever so slightly parted when she had finished speaking.

She really was so achingly beautiful…

Aside from being beautiful she did seem to be genuinely kind. The way she interacted with Shireen was enough to convince him of that. She was not like some courtly ladies he had known in his time, courteous and proper to him, simpering their flattering words to curry favour with his brother, and then sneering at his scarred daughter as if she were some sort of stain on their fine silks.

No, Sansa was not like that. The relief of it was immense, and though he would never admit it should anyone think to ask, he hoped Sansa might help his daughter adopt her pleasing manners and elegant bearing. His daughter did not really need to learn those things to earn _his_ approval, but Shireen would have to marry one day, and her future husband would undoubtedly be pleased by a courteous, poised lady wife.

Stannis was certainly pleased with Sansa’s manners and poise… He was pleased with most everything about her. It was unseemly how pleased he was; how much pleasure he took in _having her._

“Good evening, my lord,” Jon said quietly, taking the free seat by the fire.

Stannis just hummed, still staring at the flames, lost in his thoughts of Sansa. The fire reminded him of Sansa’s hair, and he decided he would ask if she would allow him to run his hands through it again tonight. He was quite certain she liked it when he did that, and perhaps if he did such things for her - things that she most certainly liked and did not require her to do anything for him in return - it would take her longer to start to resent his presence in her bed? _Or become interested in other men…_

He liked the feel of her soft hair between his fingers, in any case.

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it?” Jon said after a long stretch of silence.

Stannis closed his eyes briefly and pushed his thoughts of Sansa to the side. He enjoyed his conversations with Jon, and the lad deserved some of his attention.

“There is much to be done to prepare for the coming winter. Ser Cortnay did an adequate job while we were away, but if a war is coming…” Stannis trailed off, not knowing how to express in words how much work they would need to do in order to prepare for a winter of war. Especially if Robert made good on his threat to send him to command the royal army at the Wall.

“Yes, I agree. It might be wise to invest in some new training equipment as it is more important than ever to keep our fighting skills honed,” Jon pointed out, “the equipment we have is old and some of the training swords are coming apart.”

Stannis nodded, making a note of Jon’s suggestion. They discussed a few other matters that pertained to Storm’s End before starting to talk of the Wall.

Jon had a good mind for tactics and he was a good soldier, too. Time flew by as they discussed the possible strategies that might be employed on the Wall or even north of the Wall, and Stannis realised that Jon’s intimate knowledge of the north would make him an indispensable resource if they ended up riding to war with the wildlings.

The warmth of the room was starting to make the two men drowsy when Stannis suddenly remembered a strange piece of news from one of his letters.

“It appears that Lord Baelish has left King’s Landing,” he said abruptly, changing the subject with no warning.

“That’s odd,” Jon said, straightening up and looking much more alert.

“I have no news regarding his current whereabouts,” Stannis said darkly.

“Do you think he realised that we suspected him?” Jon asked, furrowing his brow and leaning forwards in his seat.

“I doubt it.”

They were both silent for a while, contemplating Lord Baelish and his motives; a task that Stannis found utterly distasteful.

“You and Lady Sansa seem to be getting along,” Jon said after a while, proving that Stannis was not the only one who could abruptly change the subject.

Stannis wished he could say that he didn’t know how that was any of Jon’s concern, but as Jon was Sansa’s brother it was difficult to avoid the topic completely.

“Yes,” he said, feeling very uncomfortable. Perhaps Jon wouldn’t ask any more questions?

“Thank you,” Jon said awkwardly, “for being kind to her. I can tell you’re making an effort. I’m sure she - er - appreciates it.”

It seemed as if Jon wanted to say more as he took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but then it was as if he changed his mind.

“Did she… say anything? To you?” Stannis asked foolishly, wanting to bite his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth.

“She spoke to me in the feast hall after you left,” Jon said easily, “she wants me to show her around the castle when I have a spare moment.” Jon grinned at that, and Stannis was surprised at how effusive the expression was. He rarely saw Jon smile so widely, and it was usually only due to Shireen.

“But she didn’t say anything about you, if that’s what you were asking,” Jon added, his grin fading to an amused smirk.

Something about the way Jon explained that Sansa hadn’t _said_ anything jumped out at Stannis and made him wonder if Sansa had _not said_ something, instead. Perhaps she had done something unusual? He asked Jon if that was the case.

Jon brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head and cleared his throat. “Er, she _did_ blush rather a lot when I mentioned your name,” he admitted.

Stannis grimaced. He did not like where this conversation had ended up. Why had she blushed at the sound of his name, however? Should he ask Jon?

“Do you think she blushed because of something I’ve done?” he asked before he could think better of it.

Jon looked startled at the question. He blinked owlishly at Stannis and stammered for a little while before finally collecting himself and giving a coherent answer. “I am not certain. You are more likely to know the answer to that than I.”

Stannis pondered it and recalled how Sansa blushed when he was about to bed her, and how she had remained flushed throughout the act each time.

“Do you think it might have been because I…” Stannis paused and cast about for a way to say this without being very crass, “slept in her chambers this night?” he finished, wondering if he had made himself clear.

Jon was looking decidedly flushed which led Stannis to believe that he had understood his meaning and was embarrassed to hear of such things. But Stannis did not care if the lad was embarrassed; Jon possessed a valuable insight into Sansa’s character, and he needed the knight’s opinion. They were… friends… weren’t they? Friends discussed such matters, did they not?

“Uh, slept in…? Yes, maybe that had something to do with it,” Jon choked out.

“I was with her last night,” Stannis said to clarify, “and this morning,” he added as an afterthought. ”She did not seem displeased, but I am not certain I was able to... _satisfy_ her,” Stannis admitted through gritted teeth. Speaking of these things was more difficult than he had imagined, but he needed to know if Jon thought she might seek pleasure elsewhere. He needed to _know._

He examined Jon’s expression and did not quite understand what he saw. Jon’s face was very still, and the muscles of his neck and jaw all seemed very tense. His eyes were a little wider than usually, his face was reddening further, and he seemed to be staring quite fixedly into the middle distance. It was very odd.

As Jon didn’t say anything, however, Stannis continued. “Do you think she would be tempted to stray? To seek a younger lover?” he asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice. He stared at Jon, trying to read his unreadable face and willed him to answer quickly.

“Er…” Jon hesitated, clearing his throat and blinking quite fast, “I very much doubt Sansa would ever betray you, my lord.”

“Why?” Stannis barked, needing to know the logic behind such an assumption.

“Sansa always follows the rules,” Jon said with an awkward shrug, “and Lady Stark is her mother,” he added -- as if that explained everything.

Stannis furrowed his brow in confusion. Did Jon expect him to understand that?

“Lady Stark would have made very certain that Sansa knew the importance of lying only with her husband, my lord. She is very concerned with whether children are trueborn or not,” Jon explained, pain in his voice and hurt in his eyes.

Stannis grimaced, understanding Jon’s meaning and feeling foolish for not having understood sooner.

“Ah.”

They were both silent for a while, each thinking their own thoughts.

Stannis wondered for the first time what his brother must have felt like when Lyanna Stark disappeared with Prince Rhaegar. He had never been entirely sure that the girl had not left of her own free will. Indeed, when he was particularly annoyed with Robert it often gave him a grim sense of satisfaction to think that Lyanna had simply wanted to escape the fate of being wedded to Robert. Now that Stannis had a Stark bride of his own the thought gave him no satisfaction at all. Had Lyanna perhaps been wanton? Had she run off with the prince because he had somehow been able to quench her lust? Would Sansa take after her aunt?

Jon said that Sansa would not betray him, but Jon did not know what Sansa was like with a man between her legs. Did Jon even know what coupling was like? How all rational thought became impossible? Stannis had forbidden such behaviour when Jon had been his squire on Dragonstone, but Jon had fought in the war against the Lannisters and Stannis had granted him a knighthood since then. Many things could have happened after Jon the squire had become Ser Jon the knight.

“Have you lain with a woman?” he found himself asking, breaking the silence.

Jon went very red and looked determinedly at the floor. “No, my lord.”

Stannis sighed and tried to determine whether Jon was being truthful. His embarrassment seemed real enough, Stannis supposed.

“A few ladies have offered to allow me to… that,” Jon said uncomfortably, “but I do not wish to marry yet and I refuse to sire any bastards.”

Stannis nodded in approval, admiring Jon’s strength of character. He had always thought it was utter nonsense to believe bastards were wanton and treacherous. All men made their own choices. Birth had nothing to do with it; one had but to look at his brother Robert to see that. If anyone was wanton and treacherous it was a lord - or king - who bedded women without any concern for the consequences and created bastards in the first place. It was not just to judge an innocent child for the sin of its father.

“If it please you, my lord, I should like to retire,” Jon said quietly after another long silence.

Stannis made a dismissive hand gesture and nodded again. 

Jon left in much more of a hurry than he usually did, but it did not give Stannis much pause. Perhaps he needed the privy?

He sat still for a long time after Jon had left, pondering whether Jon’s insights regarding Sansa were likely to be accurate.

***

Sansa couldn’t wait for her husband.

When her maid had left Sansa’s hair had been gleaming from the thorough brushing it had been given and she had been wearing a fresh nightgown of butter-soft silk. Sansa had decided that the nightgowns in her possession couldn’t be too scandalous if her mother had deemed them appropriate, and perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to wear something a little scandalous for her husband? Might it not increase his desire for her and encourage him to show her some passion? She would not be opposed to that sort of effect now that she desperately wanted Stannis to finish what he had started when he had woken her up.

It was a shame that her hair was already getting dishevelled due to her head rubbing against the pillows of her bed and that her pretty nightgown was becoming wrinkled from the way she was writhing about. But there was nothing for it. She simply had not been able to wait any longer to attempt to give herself some relief.

She hoped that Stannis would knock like he had done the previous evening and give her time to make herself slightly more presentable before he entered her chambers. The idea of him catching her didn’t seem so frightening now that she was rapidly approaching her long awaited peak, however. In fact, she felt rather excited at the prospect and the idea of it was increasing her pleasure to what was surely an unseemly extent.

She was moving both of her hands, using the tips of her fingers to rub frantic circles around her most sensitive place, pushing two fingers in and out of her embarrassingly slick passage, and trying to ignore the wet noises the pleasurable activity produced. She imagined Stannis barging in and catching her at it, becoming angry and scolding her at first, but then ordering her to move her hands out of the way so that he might touch her instead. In her fantasy he was quite gentle with his large hands, but she knew they would still feel rougher than her own.

 _There._ She almost had it! She whimpered and sped up, her hips moving jerkily of their own volition, and then it happened. Warmth spread like wildfire from her centre to every limb -- even to the tips of her toes! Pulse after pulse of pleasure wracked her body until she was almost trembling, and her cheeks felt incredibly hot and tingly.

_Finally!_

It was strange to feel a measure of satisfaction after an entire day of discomfort and frustration, and even stranger to feel how her body did not seem to be cooling down _at all._ Her breathing was slowing and her heart was no longer beating quite as hard beneath her breast, but the heat between her legs was simply not going away. _What was wrong with her?_

Sansa’s heartbeat had only just returned to its usual pace when there was a knock on the secret door behind the tapestry. She sat up in a panic, wiping her hands on the sheets with a small grimace and attempting to unstick a few sweaty strands of long red hair from her face and neck.

“May I enter, my lady?” came Lord’s Stannis’ voice from behind the door.

Doing her best to straighten out her silk nightgown, Sansa breathlessly gave Stannis permission to open the door.

***

Stannis did not doubt that he would have knocked on Sansa’s door a lot earlier if it hadn’t been for his conversation with Jon providing him with a distraction from his desire to spend time with his wife. He recognised the feeling in the pit of his stomach as excitement and scowled at his own foolishness. He was behaving as if he were a green boy, not a grown man. He was the lord of a great castle - two great castles - and he should be able to control himself better than this. His cock should not already be hardening at the mere _thought_ of bedding his wife. It was unseemly.

After what seemed an age, Sansa finally answered his request to enter her chamber. (“You may, my lord.”) She sounded unusual, but he supposed it might be due to the way her voice was muffled by the heavy wooden door. When he saw that she looked unusual, too, he reconsidered. She appeared very flushed, her hair was in disarray, and she was looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes that were glazed over and a little unfocused.

Had she been drinking?

“My lady, are you well?” he asked, trying to keep from staring at the indecent scrap of silk she was wearing and the way it caressed her curves enticingly. Instead he looked around the room and noticed that Lady was absent tonight. It was just as well. He did not really want to know what would happen if Lady ever misunderstood what went on between husband and wife and thought Stannis was _attacking_ Sansa. He took a step closer to the bed and started to become aware of a familiar scent in the air. He had smelled it the last two times he had lain with her, and the same scent had lingered on his fingers when he touched her between her thighs.

He looked at her again and was forced to conclude that she did not look as if she were drunk. She looked as she had when he had left her that morning… she looked _aroused._

Stannis was immediately seized by suspicion. Had Sansa been alone in her chamber this evening? Or was he perhaps the second man to visit her? Why else would she look aroused if no one had been touching her? Jon had said she would not betray him, but Jon had not known her well since she was a child. A lot could have changed since then.

“Yes, my lord, I am well,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. She moved then, lying back on her pillow and shifting her arms upwards, resting her hands on the pillow above her head in a very inviting pose of surrender. Stannis found himself torn. On one hand he wanted to disrobe hurriedly and join her as quickly as he could; while on the other he wanted to determine whether his wife had been entertaining a _guest._

“What have you been doing to make yourself so flushed?” he snapped, crossing his hands over his chest.

Sansa’s eyes widened slightly - was that guilt? - and she reddened even more.

“My lord…” she started hesitantly, her blue eyes filling with worry, “are you displeased with me?”

“I can smell it, you know,” he found himself hissing out, jealousy rearing up inside of him like some terrible sickness.

Sansa sat up and hugged her knees, her face crimson and her eyes so very wide. “Smell what?” she asked in a very small voice.

He reddened a little at being compelled to spell it out, but he was too angry to let his embarrassment stop him. “You were aroused before I got here, were you not? Admit it.”

Sansa’s mouth dropped open for a moment, though she hurried to shut it again. She hugged her knees tighter and looked terribly young and humiliated.

“I knew you were coming to see me, my lord,” she whispered, sounding mortified, “thinking about it made me feel warm and flushed and... “ she trailed off and hid her face.

Stannis’ anger and jealousy faded away to the background, as he considered the novel idea that Sansa had become aroused at the thought of him. Was it possible that some women did not need to be touched to become ready to be taken? He knew it was possible for himself to harden without any physical stimulation if his thoughts became inappropriately lustful. This was why he usually tried not to think inappropriate thoughts. But had Sansa truly been thinking about him in a way that made her give off such a scent? His cock jumped eagerly at the idea, and his breathing became excited. Could she be telling the truth? 

“You have been alone?” he asked sharply, his voice hoarse. Had she really been thinking about _him?_ She could just as easily have been thinking about some other man, could she not?

Sansa looked up, still blushing, still looking very embarrassed. “Yes, my lord, since the maids left,” she said with a hint of a pout on her lips, the truth shining in her eyes.

Should he ask her if she had truly been thinking of him? He wanted to, but might it not make him appear weak and much too concerned with her approval?

He would not ask, he decided. He would take her - _claim her_ \- and make it impossible for her to think of any other man.

“Good,” he said, giving into the urge to disrobe and move aggressively towards her. Her pout disappeared when she saw what he was doing, and she uncurled herself from the ball she had turned herself into in favour of lying down and resting her hands above her head again. It looked just as inviting as it had before, but something in her eyes made him think of how some animals adopted submissive poses in order to avoid a fight when faced with overwhelming odds. He slowed down, not wanting her to feel threatened by his advance.

He felt himself flushing when he unlaced his breeches and revealed how aroused he already was, but he tried to hold on to his dignity by acting as if it weren’t ridiculous. Still, he felt rather better once he was under the bedclothes with her, hidden from view. Touching her was almost like sticking his hand into a furnace, and he was already starting to feel slightly feverish from being close to her. He did not care, however, and focused his attention on finding the delicate ties that held her nightgown together, pulling on them to give himself access to her bare skin. She continued to hold her hands above her head, reminding him that she was in his power and that she was allowing him to do as he wanted with her. He could not bring himself to touch her very roughly while she was so vulnerable, and attempted to stroke her in a way that would not make her flinch. His efforts were met with encouraging soft sighs and sweet moans that sent blood rushing to his loins and left his head worryingly empty.

She gasped with pleasure when he started to kiss her teats as he had the night before, daring to lick at the stiff peaks and suckle them eagerly because she had not objected when he had first tried it. They were beautiful, soft, and they tasted of her, but the best thing about them was the way Sansa responded to his ministrations. Soon she was moaning loudly and arching her back to bring her teats up towards his lips, which he assumed to mean that she was enjoying herself.

It was suspicious how much she seemed to enjoy his touch, but a primitive part of him ruled his thoughts now, and he was unable to really dwell on his suspicion. The pleasure of bedding Sansa was too overwhelming. He was amazed to feel how his arousal - usually a heavy pressure that he mostly felt in his groin - seemed to be making every part of his body thrum even as the usual pressure built to a nearly intolerable point, causing his cock to twitch and jump uncontrollably.

Knowing that what he was doing was giving Sansa pleasure was _intoxicating,_ but that selfish, primitive part of him was crying out for more. He wanted to bury himself inside her, feel her squeeze him and listen to the sound of flesh meeting flesh as he thrust into her.

Still licking at one of her nipples, he moved a hand to probe between her legs, wanting to feel whether she was as ready as she seemed to be. 

She was _soaked._

His cock jumped again and again as she whimpered needily in response to his touch, her breath catching noisily as her body alternately tensed up and relaxed.

Stannis pushed the bedclothes that covered them impatiently out of the way, and pulled Sansa’s little scrap of silk the rest of the way off, throwing it aside. She helped him by lifting herself up slightly, and then she was already assuming the same position she had folded herself into that morning, bringing her knees up and exposing herself utterly to him. _Did it feel better for her in this position?_

He didn’t waste more time on coherent thoughts. It was time to push into her, and all rational brain activity was suspended while he did that. All he could do while he guided the head of his cock to her pink, glistening entrance was enjoy the warmth and try not to groan too loudly as he coated himself with her moisture. She was _so wet._ He had to suppress the urge to start praising her to the gods he did not believe in when his first nudge into her was met with perfect, yielding acceptance. A more forceful thrust had him lodged halfway inside - “Oh, my lord! _Oh!_ ” - and another firm movement of his hips had him fully sheathed. Sansa's hands had gone to his shoulders and she scratched at his skin lightly - as if to reward him for the accomplishment - and moaned with pleasure.

A single moan from Sansa’s lips was more flattering than an army of foolish courtiers with their simpering, insincere words of praise, and Stannis could not help but feel powerful and impressive when he began to thrust into her and she responded with seemingly involuntary moans and gasps of pleasure at his every movement. He could feel her inner muscles squeezing him and each time it happened it sent a fresh shock of pleasure down his spine, making him let out moans of his own.

Maybe one day he would be able to take her without sounding completely undignified, but today was not that day. Somehow Sansa was managing to be noisy in a way that was not nearly as embarrassing, and he found himself attempting to do his utmost to draw more and more of those attractive sounds from her. She seemed to like it when he went fast but didn't put too much weight behind his thrusts. He tried to maintain that pace for as long as he could, and for the first time in his life he _fought_ the impulse to finish. He might not be as young as Edric Storm, but he wanted his wife to be left in no doubt that he was quite virile, still.

"Oh, gods! Oh, my lord, please don't stop!"

Sansa had thrown her head back and had her eyes closed, an expression of intense concentration on her face. Stannis was approaching his point of no return, his sac tightening up in preparation, and the urge to give into the pleasure of it and start thrusting with utter abandon was becoming stronger and stronger. But he reined himself in, partly out of pride and partly because he was curious what would happen if he stayed the course.

"Please, my lord! Oh, please! More!"

Her words were enough to bring him to the very edge of his release, and he was relieved that she was begging for more because he _needed_ to fuck her harder. Almost as soon as she had spoken he was putting more of his weight and power behind every thrust and speeding up to the pace his body was demanding. It was the best he had ever felt inside a woman and he found himself holding on just _a little bit_ longer to enjoy the sheer blissful ecstasy of it.

“Yes, _please_ , oh! _My lord_ , oh, Stannis, Stannis, _Stannis!_ ” Sansa sang her flattering song into his ear as her inner muscles fluttered and squeezed him, forcing him to lose all control of himself, thrust madly for a few frenzied moments, and release his seed with a series of embarrassing grunts. He didn’t feel embarrassed, however. 

He felt like a _king_.

If he was not very much mistaken he had just given Sansa the feminine equivalent to his own release and the knowledge was making the high of his climax all the more powerful. Everything he had heard about how it was supposed to feel, look and sound had been remarkably accurate, and he understood now why some men seemed to feel the need to crow about this sort of accomplishment to their friends, fellow soldiers or even to complete strangers. It really was an astoundingly _superior_ feeling.

Additionally, he would be a flagrant liar if he pretended not to have enjoyed the way she had just been crying his name. It felt good to know that she was not imagining someone else when he was inside her; that she knew that she was _his_ and that she was pleased with him. _Judging by the way she drew out the syllables of my name she was rather more than pleased,_ he thought smugly. He had never before heard his name said in such an arousing way, and he was already hoping she would do it again the next time he took her.

The next time would not be for a while yet, however, as he was utterly spent. He pulled away from Sansa and rolled to his back beside her, allowing her to relax into a more comfortable position. She turned her body towards him, but she did not attempt to trap his thigh, and she was not whimpering. She was languid and pliant, her breathing was returning to it’s usual quiet rhythm, and she tugged on his arm in a silent request for him to put his arm around her.

“Thank you,” Sansa whispered against his neck, her tone a little embarrassed. She followed the soft words with an even softer kiss; her lips warm on his pulse point.

 _She was grateful?_ Something inside of him twisted up and expanded, making him feel choked and uncomfortable. It was an unfamiliar feeling that only vaguely reminded him of what he had felt when he had been faced with his infant daughter for the first time. He had expected to inspect her and feel pleased to finally have a healthy child and had prepared to push any feelings of disappointment regarding her gender aside so that he might appreciate her for who she was. Instead he had been flooded with powerful emotions that he still could not name, though he knew that chief among them had been an overwhelming sense of responsibility and protectiveness. Shireen had been a tiny little pink bundle with a shock of dark hair, but he had sworn to himself that he would keep her safe always the moment he had laid eyes on her. A similar desire to protect Sansa had taken root, but there was something else, too. Something new he didn’t recognise.

Not knowing how to express himself with words he maneuvered them until he could kiss her, hoping the kiss would tell her what he meant. He had only intended to give her a chaste kiss, but Sansa parted her lips invitingly, and suddenly he was burying his hands in her hair and doing his best to discover what every inch of her mouth tasted like.

It was a while before they broke apart, but eventually Sansa seemed to want to go back to burying her face in the crook of his neck, tickling him with her warm breath. He continued to absently comb his fingers through her hair as she had raised no objections, a feeling of peace stealing over him.

“Will you stay the night again, my lord?” Sansa asked after a while, sounding contented and sleepy.

He was surprised at how desperately he wanted to say yes, but there was still a cautious voice at the back of his mind that warned him not to overstay his welcome. How much worse would it be when Sansa started to merely tolerate him now that he knew how _good_ it could be to be sincerely accepted? 

… even desired?

“I think not. I must rise early tomorrow and I do not wish to disturb your sleep, my lady.”

“It would be no disturbance, my lord,” Sansa said shyly, rising up so that she might bestow upon him a small smile. Her flush had faded for the most part, leaving her cheeks tinged a faint pink but the rest of her skin a smooth porcelain -- except around her mouth where his beard had rubbed her raw. There was a light in her Tully blue eyes, and she was so close that he could see how her eyelashes curled a little at the tips. Her hair was tousled and dishevelled and the smile on her soft, plump, slightly swollen lips was genuine and sweet.

Gods, she was _distractingly_ beautiful…

“Nonetheless, my lady, I shall leave you in peace,” he forced out and started to get up.

She made that sound again. The sound a pout would make if pouts made sounds. He hesitated before he managed to stand up and looked at her as he sat on the edge of the bed -- a mistake if ever he had made one.

Sansa wasn’t _quite_ pouting, but she was very close to it. She fluttered her eyelashes when she noticed that he was looking, somehow conveying disappointment and innocent want at the same time. It was the look a coddled young girl would employ to get her way, and Stannis wondered for a moment if Ned Stark had ever managed to say no to this creature. And if so, _how?_

“Must you go right away, my lord?” she asked softly, her tone forlorn.

“Er,” he began without really knowing what he was about to say, “you wish me to stay for longer?”

Watching her face was like seeing the sun rising over a still ocean on a clear day. Her almost-pout changed into a bright hopeful expression that he realised at once was _dangerous._ If he was not careful he would find himself enslaved, doing anything in his power to make her wear that look for him.

“Would you?” she asked with a dazzling smile, sounding genuinely pleased.

A part of him was insisting that he resist her charms and make sure she knew he would not be swayed by a hopeful look and a pretty smile, while another part of him wanted to do absolutely anything she wanted. Surely it would not hurt to keep his wife happy? She was not asking for much, after all…

“Perhaps I could stay for a while,” he said stiffly, wondering what her reaction would be.

As it turned out, it was rather an enjoyable reaction. She came over to the edge of the bed where he was sitting and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her soft teats against his back and kissing his neck gently, tugging on him to indicate that she wanted him to lie back down. He pulled his feet off the floor and did as she wanted, guiltily liking the way she immediately rested her warm body against his and continued to place gentle little kisses wherever she could reach, focusing mainly on his neck but also trailing kisses over his collarbones, her tongue darting out to taste the dip between them.

An involuntary sound of pleasure escaped him at that, and Sansa looked up at him with a curious expression on her face. He felt embarrassed and started to think that he had made a mistake. This was _improper._ He should not be enjoying himself. He had done his duty and now he should leave. It unnerved him that Sansa had somehow managed to convince him to stay and he disliked suddenly feeling so powerless and out of control. 

Still, he was very curious about what she would do.

She smiled after observing him for a moment, an excited gleam in her eyes. Without a word she bent down again, kissing the skin just below his collarbones and continuing downwards, peppering his chest with warm soft kisses. She moved unhurriedly and stroked his arm softly as she mapped his chest with her lips, occasionally licking at him experimentally and smiling when he unwillingly let more little noises of pleasure escape.

Was this what it was like to have an affectionate wife?

It would be very difficult not to let her have her way in all things if acquiescing to her wishes led to such rewards.

But he should not want this. He should not let her rule him like this and she should not be behaving as such a… such a _whore._

He was on the verge of saying something - stopping her - but she had moved all the way to his abdomen now, following the dips and swells of his musculature with a finger first, then her lips and finally - tentatively - her tongue. It felt so unlike anything he had ever experienced that he couldn’t bring himself to stop her. Her attentions certainly did not tickle because being ticklish was absurd at his age, but they did leave him wanting so much more. The way she was moving lower and lower was reminding him of every ribald story he had ever heard about women putting their mouths to good use below a man’s belt, and of how much he had always wondered if it felt as good as most men claimed. The idea of it and the feel of her hot mouth low on his abdomen was causing his soft cock to give feeble, interested twitches, but to his surprise he realised it would not be long until they became a lot less feeble. If Sansa kept doing what she was doing and he was unable to control his thoughts he’d be hard again within moments.

He clenched his jaw and his hands into fists. It would be utterly obscene. Just as it was obscene to even _think_ of his wife performing such a degrading, whorish act for him. He would never ask it of her, and she should not be making him think of these things.

She did not seem to be moving all the way down _there,_ however, and after she had kissed what felt like every inch of his chest and abdomen she moved to nestle against him once more, humming happily.

“My lady… you should not do such things,” he said hoarsely, feeling as if he should say something. Unfortunately he had not managed to sound suitably reprimanding.

“I wanted to,” she said, her voice a little muffled because her face was pressed close to his neck, “was it not to your liking, my lord?” She raised her head a little to ask her worried question, making her voice clearer.

Why did she always ask? Why did she want to pleasure him in such a manner? Where had she got the idea that she was required to debase herself for him?

“It was not unpleasant,” he said uncomfortably, wishing she weren’t looking at him and observing the way he was reddening.

“Thank you for staying, my lord,” she said softly, kissing his lips chastely and going back to hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

“I will have to leave soon,” he said gruffly. He couldn’t stay. This was all unseemly and wrong, and _why was she making him behave this way?_ Why was there a part of him that was desperate to make certain that she would continue to make him behave this way? Continue to welcome him with open arms, continue to wish to pleasure him, continue to _take care_ of him...

“Of course, my lord.”

He got the distinct feeling that she was only placating him. Did she not think he actually meant to leave? He was definitely going to leave. It was vital that he leave so that she would not tire of him. And he needed to get away from her so that he would be able to _think._

He would be leaving momentarily.

***

Stannis had fallen asleep. Sansa could feel it the moment that it happened because it was as if the tension in his body drained away all at once. Now his breathing was deep and slow, and he was completely relaxed. His face looked very odd when he was sleeping, and younger without all the muscles tensed, without his scowl, and without his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed into suspicious slits.

Should she wake him? It had not seemed as if there had been a real reason for him to sleep in the lord’s chambers rather than in her bed. She did not mind if he had to rise early. She probably wouldn’t even notice since she usually slept quite deeply, but if he woke her up she would either use the time to continue getting familiar with the castle or simply go back to sleep.

Or perhaps she would take Lady for a walk in the godswood? Jon had mentioned that there was a weirwood heart tree in the woods and Sansa found herself wishing to see it. Oddly enough, though she had always wanted to go to the south and be among southron people, and though she kept the new gods more than she did the old, she missed the north. After her long stay in King’s Landing she found herself aching to look upon something that reminded her of home, and there was nothing more of the north than a weirwood heart tree.

Surprisingly, her thoughts of the north did not bring with them as sharp a pang of pain as she had expected. There was a certain melancholy that came with her thoughts, but she did not ache for her home in a way that made her want to weep and find a way to visit as soon as she could. She was lonely for the company of friends and family, but Storm’s End would hopefully become more pleasant as she became more familiar with its people and its smooth stone walls, and she could imagine that the castle would eventually become her new home, even though she would always keep Winterfell safe in her heart. Especially once she had children.

Was this how her mother felt about Riverrun?

Her mother had not loved her father at first. Would Sansa learn to love Lord Stannis Baratheon as her mother had learnt to love Lord Eddard Stark?

He confused her terribly. Most of the time he spoke brusquely and seemed quite indifferent to her - or irritated - and his pointed questions about whether she had been alone before he had arrived had been incredibly hurtful. She did not quite understand why he would choose to doubt her honour in such a way. Had she ever given him any reason to doubt her? Had she not come to him a maiden?

It had not been very hard to convince him of the truth, however, and thankfully he had not continued to question her about the state of arousal he had found her in. The idea of explaining how she ‘practised’ for him was horribly embarrassing.

Despite his hurtful words she couldn’t help but feel kindly towards him at the moment. His attentions tonight had been as pleasurable as they had been painful on their wedding night. Perhaps her practising had helped things along, but the feel of him inside her had been _astonishingly_ good. Everything he had done had felt _wonderful,_ but the peak he had brought her to had been strangely different from the one she had reached on her own. She wondered if that was because he hadn’t been touching the sensitive spot she usually focused on, but decided that it wasn’t entirely important. What mattered was the fact that he had been inside her and had made her feel lovely instead of pained, uncomfortable or frustrated, and more importantly -- the peak he had brought her to had ended the relentless _need_ she had been feeling since the morning.

Would she be able to reach a peak like that every time he took her? Or would this only happen if she practised on her own first?

She pressed herself a little closer to him, enjoying his warmth and reaching to play with the soft hairs that covered his chest. They grew more sparsely beneath his breast, creating a narrow trail that led downwards to his navel and on to where he was now covered by the bedclothes. She had very much enjoyed following the trail up and down and all over his hard abdomen; kissing him and tasting his skin. At first she had been a bit embarrassed about what she wanted to do, but as soon as he had started to make those low sounds of pleasure that seemed to emanate from the very back of his throat, she had felt reassured that he enjoyed the attention. 

He _did_ like being petted and pampered.

It made her happy to know that he was not immune to such things as she had half expected. He always seemed so cold and in control of himself whenever they were among other people, but perhaps he was starting to trust her enough to show her a slightly warmer side of himself when they were alone?

Sansa fell asleep feeling tentatively hopeful for the future of her marriage, and determined to keep from doing anything that might cause Stannis to mistrust her and start saying hurtful accusatory things again.


	11. A Stag and a Doe

Sansa did not find the time to take Lady for a walk in the godswood until several days after the night when Stannis had first brought her to a peak. Her hands had been kept quite full as she was learning to fulfil her duties as the Lady of Storm’s End and - just as importantly - learning to read Stannis’ moods. Sansa was not entirely sure which was the more difficult task as Stannis tended to confuse her utterly. He would quite often be kind and attentive to her in her bed only to snap irritably at her when she found herself in his solar, asking him a simple question about whether he would like the kitchens to prepare a ham or roast a goose for their evening meal. Honestly, how was she to know he considered such things beneath his notice? Sansa was also attempting to spend some time with Shireen so the girl would not so often be in the sole company of that disturbing fool of hers, and trying to get to know some of the other ladies in the castle. Jon often offered to take Lady along on his walks with Ghost, however, so Sansa did not feel too guilty about neglecting her familiar’s need to explore an environment that was not entirely of stone.

Today she had finally found the time to take Lady to the woods herself, though Jon insisted on accompanying her for her protection.

“You think you are better equipped to protect me than a direwolf, ser?” Sansa had asked him teasingly. 

Jon had ducked his head and smiled his crooked smile. “I do when the direwolf in question is as well mannered as Lady,” he had said, raising an eyebrow, “she would not want to get her pretty pelt all bloody by tearing out the throats of any potential attackers,”

Sansa had wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes, but she was pleased that Jon wanted to come with her. It did feel safer to have another person along, especially since she was not familiar with the woods around Storm’s End and Jon was.

At the present moment she was looking at the weirwood heart tree, examining the solemn face carved into the bark as Lady carefully sniffed a nearby log. Jon and Ghost were standing at attention at the edge of the clearing, both alert and watchful.

Sansa had always been more interested in the seven than the old gods, but she knew the old ways just as well as she knew how to pray to the Mother, the Maiden and all the rest. She had tried to ask her husband about his thoughts on religion the previous night, but he had scoffed and told her that all gods were equally useless to him. He had fallen asleep soon after, so she hadn’t been able to ask him to go into more detail even though she was quite curious to know how he could say such things.

She really needed to find a way to persuade him to talk a little more _before_ he climbed on top of her. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist after. Not that he was ever much of a conversationalist, but at least when he was awake she could _attempt_ to get him to tell her more about himself.

So far he really seemed more interested in nonverbal communication with her, however. She blushed at the thought of how he had been visiting her nearly every night, touching and kissing her hungrily until she was ready for him, and then taking her relentlessly -- not always lasting long enough for her to reach her peak, but never hurting her or causing discomfort anymore.

She felt her blush deepen as she recalled a particular occasion two nights before, when Stannis had not seemed to be in much of a rush and had given her quite a lot of attention before he took her...

“Sansa?” Jon said in a tone of voice that indicated he had been saying her name for a little while. Why hadn’t she heard him?

“I’m sorry, Jon, what was that?” she asked, sounding dazed even to her own ears.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to stay here for much longer, but I suppose you were too deep in thought to hear me,” he said with a bemused expression. “What were you thinking of, sister?”

Sansa knew she was probably entirely crimson now, but she straightened out and pushed her shoulders back anyway. “I was thinking about my lord husband, if you must know.”

Jon immediately looked serious again, his bemusement fading away as if it had never been there. “Is he treating you well?” he asked quietly. Something in his eyes told her that she could trust him no matter what her answer might be, and Sansa felt a swell of affection for her brother. It was good to know that if Stannis had turned out to be a cruel husband she would have had an ally in Jon.

“Lord Stannis is not very talkative, but he is not mistreating me,” Sansa said, meeting Jon’s eyes and showing him with her unguarded gaze that she spoke true.

“I did not think he was,” Jon said with his crooked smile.

“He’s very… irritable, though,” Sansa said after a short pause, “I’m not certain he really likes me very much.”

“Lord Stannis is irritable with everyone,” Jon said calmly, his smile fading a little.

“It’s just...” Sansa hesitated, looking at Jon and wondering if she should trust him with the intimate details of her marriage. Her need to talk things over with a sympathetic person who also happened to know Stannis quite well eventually won out. “Lord Stannis is not irritated with me when he beds me,” she said with a blush, not meeting her brother’s eyes and hurrying to continue before she lost her nerve. “He is _more_ than dutiful, and usually when he lies with me he is really quite kind and… enthusiastic.”

She risked a glance at Jon and saw that her brother was looking horrified; his face scrunched up into a pained grimace. He was also twitching oddly -- as if he were resisting the impulse to move away from her.

“I don’t understand how he can be attentive to me in the bedchamber, but irritable and abrupt out of it,” she finished, hoping Jon would stop making that awful face.

“Er,” Jon hesitated, clearing his throat, “more than dutiful?” he finished weakly.

Honestly, had he not been listening?

“Yes. I think he must be very eager for an heir,” she said, blushing yet more deeply.

Jon made a noise that was half groan, half cough.

“Er,” he started again, giving her expectant face a chagrined look, “I’m really not sure I’m the best person to discuss this with you.”

“Who else is there?” Sansa said, unable to disguise the bitterness in her voice. She was slowly getting to know some of her maids and the other ladies in the castle, but none of them would ever be her Jeyne. Shireen was lovely, but Sansa could hardly talk to a young maiden about the things that went on in her bedchamber, and there was no one else she truly trusted. Jon was her only option.

“Are you very lonely?” Jon asked, concern in his tone. He seemed to be preparing himself for some ordeal judging by the way he was taking deep breaths, widening his stance and squaring his shoulders. But Sansa was more interested in the movements of his face; with his brow furrowed and that serious look on his face he reminded her achingly of her father.

“Of course I am,” she said softly, hugging herself around the middle, “I miss Jeyne. I miss my mother and our brothers and sister. I miss Father.”

Jon frowned at her, but it was a sympathetic sort of frown.

“Shireen is very sweet, and I have been sitting with some of the ladies when I have a spare moment, but it’s just not the same with strangers,” Sansa went on dejectedly.

“They won’t be strangers if you continue getting to know them,” Jon said bracingly, reaching to clap her on the shoulder as she had often observed him do with Robb. Thinking of Robb reminded Sansa of the plan he had proposed; the stop he had suggested the family should make in Storm’s End before going to Winterfell. She still had not worked up the courage to ask her husband if he would allow it.

“Did you know Robb wants our family to come visit us here before they ride to Winterfell?”

“No, is that the plan?” Jon looked very pleased at the prospect.

“Well, I haven’t asked Stannis yet,” Sansa said, blushing again, “but once I’ve spoken with him, and if he agrees, I will order a raven to be sent to King’s Landing to invite them to come and stay.”

“You should speak to him,” Jon said encouragingly, “I’m sure our father intends to ride for Winterfell soon.”

“Do you think Lord Stannis will be amenable to the idea?” Sansa asked, feeling that Jon still knew Stannis much better than she did, even though she certainly hoped Jon had not seen the side of her husband that she was privy to.

“I think he’ll be amenable if you’re the one who asks him,” Jon said, looking suddenly a little green again.

“What do you mean by that, ser?” Sansa asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re the one who said he was attentive to you,” Jon said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Only really in the bedchamber,” she repeated, making Jon grimace again. “Do you think I should ask him when we’re in bed together?”

Jon hid his face in his hands and groaned. “I don’t know - what was that?” Jon interrupted himself, dropping his hands and turning his head a fraction of a second after Ghost froze, his white ears turning towards some noise that Sansa had not been able to perceive. Lady cocked her head to the side and whined, but seemed to be responding to Ghost’s guarded stance rather than any noise.

“I’m going to go investigate, stay here with Lady,” Jon said. Sansa nodded and dug her fingers into the soft fur of Lady’s neck.

Jon hardly made any noise as he left the clearing and Sansa wondered how he kept from snapping dry twigs that got under his feet. He and Ghost moved as one and were both equally silent. They had only been gone for a minute or so when Sansa heard a noise, too. This noise was not coming from the direction Jon had gone in, however, and she was fairly certain it was an animal. Sansa hesitated, remembering that Jon had told her to remain in the clearing, but she could not imagine that she was in any danger as Lady was not growling or showing any signs of distress, and she quite wanted to see the animal she could hear. It was most likely some sort of prey animal, and Sansa therefore motioned for Lady to stay behind as she quietly made her way through the trees, following the sounds of hooves and what sounded like rather a large animal sniffing and snorting and disturbing the nearby foliage. Sansa held her breath as she took the last few steps; she could hear that the animal was just behind the trees she was approaching, and she knew she would be able to see it soon.

She had to stifle the urge to gasp in surprise when she saw that the animal she had been searching for was in fact not one animal, but two. 

A stag and a doe.

Sansa watched in awe as the stag sniffed at the beautiful doe and walked up behind her, obviously getting ready to mount her. The doe seemed almost unconcerned -- perhaps she was used to this? The stag, on the other hand, looked very impressive with his magnificent antlers and powerful muscles moving underneath his fur. She watched, mesmerised, as the stag mounted the doe easily, coupling with her the way Sansa had seen horses couple. A familiar sensation of heat moved through her, pooling at her centre and making her want to press her thighs together. _Would Lord Stannis ever take her like that?_ She blushed at her body’s response to the sight in front of her and the thoughts it had provoked, and watched as the stag got all his hooves back on the ground. 

She hurried back to Lady as soon as she thought her movements would not disturb the two animals.

Jon returned to the clearing only a moment after she did, looking relieved and almost at ease. Ghost was wagging his tail.

“A herd of deer, nothing more,” he said with a small smile, “come, let’s return to the castle.”

***

Sansa knew to expect her husband that night and decided tonight would be the time to finally ask him if he objected to her family coming to stay. She put on her nicest nightgown for the occasion - the one made of the same sort of silk as her wedding smallclothes - and once her maid finished brushing her hair she resisted the impulse to get in bed. She did not want to appear dishevelled when Lord Stannis came to her; she wanted to look _perfect._ She sat by the fire - careful not to wrinkle the fine silk of her nightgown - enjoyed the warmth, and stared at the way the flames licked the logs without really taking the sight in. The sheepskin in front of the hearth looked very empty with Lady gone, but she was off with Ghost somewhere. Sansa didn’t know how she knew it, she just _knew._

It was a long wait, but Sansa did not mind. She rehearsed the words she was going to say over and over in her mind, and tried to predict Stannis’ reaction. Hopefully he would not be irritated with her, for she disliked it terribly when he called her ‘girl’ and ground his teeth. She was learning how to get him to let go of his irritation, however. Soothing touches and kisses usually went a long way, and he never looked very irritated once her nightgown was off.

When Stannis swept into her chamber, emerging from behind the tapestry with a practised movement, Sansa hurried to get to her feet, aware that when she stood the fine silk of the nightgown clung to her figure in a way that showed it to its best advantage. Stannis both noticed and appreciated her efforts judging by the way he was already disrobing as he walked towards her, a familiar look of desire in his eyes.

“My lord,” Sansa began, wanting to stop him before he distracted them both by touching her, “there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Stannis stopped moving and left his robe on, though it was hanging open and showing his bare chest. “Can't it wait?” he snapped, narrowing his eyes at her.

“It’s only a very small matter,” Sansa said softly, walking up to him and placing her palm on his warm chest, stroking the dark hairs and looking up at him pleadingly.

“What is it, then?” he asked with an impatient sigh.

“I want to invite my family to visit us here at Storm’s End before they ride back to Winterfell, my lord,” Sansa said steadily, meeting Stannis’ eyes.

He blew out another sigh, clenched his jaw, and nodded. “As you will, my lady. Talk to Ser Cortnay about it.”

Sansa wanted to squeal and throw her arms around his neck for being so agreeable, but did not think it would be entirely proper. She made do with smiling widely and breathing a sincere and heartfelt, "thank you, my lord."

It did not feel like quite enough, however, so she moved until she was pressed fully against him and kissed his neck where she could reach, licking the rough skin tentatively after each kiss. She was fairly certain he liked it when she did that, especially since she could already feel how he was hardening against her.

"Shall we lie down, my lord?" she whispered in between kisses, enjoying the way Stannis was relaxing into her embrace.

"Yes," he choked out and took a step back from her so that he could finish disrobing. Sansa smiled at him and went to make herself comfortable on the bed, biting her lip as she considered what she wanted to say when Stannis joined her.

She did not have a long wait.

"My lord?" she asked as Stannis started to tug at the ties of her nightgown, obviously impatient to see the bare skin beneath the silk. Sansa did not know why she had ever been concerned about whether Stannis would consider her nightgowns to be scandalous. He hardly ever bothered to let her wear them for very long.

"What?" he asked distractedly, his eyes drifting down to her newly exposed breasts.

"Would you like anything different tonight?" she asked shyly, feeling heat creep to her cheeks.

She liked what they usually did, but what she had seen in the woods had made her curious about whether a husband and wife might do their duty in more than one way. Stannis had been married before so he ought to know.

"Different?" he growled, looking at her face now and clearly becoming a little irritated. He disliked it when she did not make herself clear.

"I just wondered if we might lie together in a different way. Would that be to your liking, my lord?" she asked softly, explaining herself as best she could.

Stannis was staring at her, looking as if he were struggling with an enormously difficult problem and turning faintly red with the effort.

"Do not concern yourself with such things, my lady," he finally said, sounding strained and uncomfortable, "you need only do your duty as you have done."

"I know that, my lord, and I am content to do so if that is truly what you wish, but..." Sansa trailed off, uncertain how to continue.

"But what, girl?" Stannis growled, obviously irritated now.

Sansa swallowed her nerves and kissed Stannis, bringing his hands to her breasts and encouraging him to touch her. This distracted him from his irritation and allowed her a bit of time to collect her thoughts.

"I was in the godswood today with Jon," she began, speaking in a low soothing voice and trying not to moan as Stannis’ fingers teased her nipples until they stiffened, "and Jon went to investigate a sound. While I was alone I saw a stag and a doe..."

Sansa had to stop talking for several moments while Stannis kissed her, stroking her tongue with his and letting her taste him in her turn. When he moved to her neck she continued her story.

"The stag mounted the doe from behind and coupled with her as I watched - oh!" Stannis had sucked gently on her pulse point, causing her to lose track of what she was saying for a moment. She recovered quickly, however, and went on determinedly. "I know hounds and horses mate that way, too, and I just wondered if it were possible for people to do it like that..."

Stannis stopped kissing her in favour of _staring_ at her. "Possible...?" he choked out, his face turning fully red.

"Is it perhaps not proper?" she asked anxiously, watching his every reaction carefully, "only, I felt so... strange as I watched the stag take the doe, almost as if my gown were laced up too tightly, and I thought of you..." She blushed as she tried to explain how aroused she had become without being crass and improper, and continued to nervously watch Stannis to gauge his reaction.

Stannis was looking very flushed and his eyes had gone as dark as they went when he was inside her, his breathing causing his nostrils to flare, his jaw working furiously, and his body tense. He was silent for a long time, staring at her with a kind of desperate hunger that she wanted him to act on, but did not know how to ask.

"My lord?" she prompted when it seemed he would remain frozen forever, "have I offended you?" she asked tremulously, still watching his every breath with wide eyes. She was almost certain that Stannis was far from being offended, but sometimes he was difficult to read and she did not want to take any chances.

He continued to stare at her, his eyes betraying disbelief at war with desire, and Sansa had to fight the impulse to hold her breath as she waited for his response.

"Get on your hands and knees," he suddenly ordered hoarsely, his eyes glittering with lust. His words and his expression made heat move through her alarmingly, causing moisture to gather between her thighs, and making her feel utterly ready for him. She complied with his command even though her muscles felt weak now, and felt the silken fabric of her nightgown slide away from where it had been clinging to her hips as she moved to get on all fours.

She felt the mattress shifting and dipping as Stannis got up on his knees behind her and she looked over her shoulder curiously, wondering what he looked like in this position. She didn’t look for very long because he met her eyes with a ferocious glare that convinced her she should probably just focus on looking straight ahead. The brief glimpse of him had been enough to set her heart to racing, however, as he had looked terribly imposing and almost frighteningly focused on her.

His fingers came up between her thighs, stroking her softly and dipping two fingers into her when he felt how wet she was. It was strange to feel his fingers entering her from behind, and it embarrassed her when he used his free hand to splay her buttocks apart slightly. _He would be able to see everything. Places that she, herself, had scarcely looked at._ She was glad that he couldn’t see her face as she was sure it was as flaming red as it ever got. She didn’t protest his treatment, however, as the angle his fingers were entering her from was making her toes curl with pleasure. She was moaning before she registered the desire to make a sound, and she could hear Stannis’ breathing becoming loud and ragged.

She felt like he had only just pushed his fingers inside when he was pulling them away again and bringing the head of his manhood to her entrance instead, spreading his thighs wide to line himself up with her. As always it felt wonderfully rounded and blunt, and as soon as it was wet with her moisture it was gliding pleasantly against all of her most sensitive places. Giving into some instinct, Sansa got down on her elbows and pushed herself against the blunt head of her husband’s manhood; she wanted him inside more than anything.

Stannis seemed to understand her signal, or perhaps he was simply just as eager for her as she was for him, because as soon as she pushed herself back against him he surged forwards, filling her with one smooth stroke. They both moaned with pleasure simultaneously, but Sansa barely heard Stannis -- she was too busy marvelling at how good this angle really was. It had felt wonderful with just his fingers, but now with his manhood stretching her in just the right way, filling her and completing her, it felt _amazing._

She didn’t have any words that were big enough to describe what she felt when he started to move. He started off slowly, but built to a faster pace quickly, grabbing her hips and creating loud smacking sounds each time he pushed himself in to the hilt. Each thrust of his hips brought her a fresh jolt of intense pleasure, and she was barely giving herself time to breathe as she was fully occupied with moaning and gasping. Soon she was pushing herself back to meet his every thrust, trying to wordlessly ask him to use a little more force.

He worked it out quickly enough.

She could hear that he was getting close to his release by the increasingly desperate sounds he was making, but she knew that she would reach her peak first. The fast pace of his forceful thrusts was causing a strange and overwhelming series of muscle spasms inside of her, leading delicious tendrils of heat to shoot from her core to every inch of her body, turning her bones to water and leaving her throat raw due to her cries. She didn’t think she would still be on her knees if it weren’t for the way Stannis was propping her up, but from the sound of things he would be collapsing soon.

Grunting with the effort of it, Stannis sped up to an even more furious pace, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force. Sansa hadn’t really come down from her first peak, but this sudden onslaught on her senses brought her to another, higher, more powerful peak, and she couldn’t suppress the sob of pleasure that escaped her as Stannis started to slow down, groaning due to his release.

When they came apart it was unusually messy, but Sansa couldn't have stood to clean herself up even if the castle had been in flames. She felt as if all of the strength in her body had abandoned her, leaving her weak but utterly relaxed and satisfied.

They were lying side by side, though she was on her stomach and he on his back, and they were both quiet save for their loud breathing.

Suddenly Stannis got to his feet, dressing himself quickly without stopping by her washbasin to rinse himself off. "I must go," he said tersely, his voice raw.

Sansa was used to Stannis being rather unpredictable regarding whether he stayed the night in her bed or not, but he usually stayed a little longer than _this._ She was too dazed to really speak any sense, though, so she only managed a muffled wish for him to sleep well.

He left without answering her, and she might have felt slighted if she weren't used to his abrupt manners. Perhaps he had remembered some urgent matter that required his immediate attention? 

It took her a while to persuade herself to leave her warm bed in order to visit the garderobe to clean herself up and she couldn't help but giggle at how unsteady her gait was. It was as if she had drunk too many cups of wine!

She fell asleep almost as soon as she found her bed again and slept deeply and peacefully for much longer than she usually did.

***

Stannis paced around his chamber in a panic, wearing his hastily donned robe and breeches, his cock still sticky with the evidence of what he had just done, the muscles of his thighs aching.

Why had he done it? Why had he taken his wife in such a disrespectful way? Did he think himself a Dothraki savage? Sansa had brought the idea up, but he should not have listened to her. Despite the way she tended to pet him and touch him to an inappropriate extent she was inexperienced and innocent of the ways of the world, and probably had not known exactly what sort of treatment she had been inviting. He had never expected her to be curious about such things… to _suggest_ and tempt him with acts he had only ever fantasised about in his weaker moments…

Seven fucking hells, why had he given into his lust? It was worse to know exactly how _good_ it felt to take a woman like that and be unable to do it again. He refused to use his wife so shamefully for his own enjoyment. 

_She had not sounded as if she disliked it, though…_ a voice at the back of his mind pointed out. It had almost seemed as if she had peaked _twice._ Stannis had to suppress the triumphant smug feeling that was threatening to overtake him. It was indecent.

How could Sansa have enjoyed herself to such an unseemly extent? She had said the idea for this experiment came from observing animals in the woods, but what if she was not so inexperienced and innocent after all? Had she been stealing away to hide among the trees and couple with other men? Jon could not always be with her, after all, and she could easily go for a walk with some knight along to _protect_ her, only to allow the knight to take what was rightly _his_. Had some knight taught her to enjoy being taken like a _bitch?_

Over the past few days he had been able to half convince himself that Sansa only liked to map the planes of his body with her fingers and her lips like some sort of lowborn strumpet because she didn’t _know_ how unladylike it was. He had also convinced himself that he was partly to blame for the way she continued to pleasure him with her soft kisses and gentle touches as he had utterly failed to command her to stop.

But did she perhaps know? Did she know that she was behaving like a common whore and dragging him down into the muck with her? Did she enjoy making him _like it?_

Stannis stopped pacing and scrubbed his face with his hands. It concerned him how much he had liked taking her so savagely. The whole experience of it had been so different from what he had grown used to. The view on its own had been intensely arousing; all that ivory skin before him, her small waist, the curve of her hips, and that perfect rump that just _begged_ to be fondled. Best of all had been the way he had been able to watch his own cock disappear into Sansa, stretching her and then reappearing glistening with her moisture… He had never seen anything that compared with it. The feel of her had been even more intense than he was used to; she had been as wet as ever, but it had felt like she had been squeezing him harder… or perhaps it had only felt that way because he had allowed himself to be more forceful than ever before?

He had been drunk on the feeling of power she had given him, liking the way he had been able to hold onto her hips and control her utterly, and thoroughly enjoying the way he had been able to fuck her as hard as he wanted due to all the leverage their position had afforded him.

Was there perhaps more of Robert in him than he had always chosen to believe? He grimaced at the thought. Had these urges been waiting to be released all along or was Sansa turning him into some sort of degenerate? 

It was all much too unseemly to be allowed to happen again.

The nagging suspicion that Sansa had perhaps learnt of this way of coupling from another man would not leave him be. Perhaps he should start having her watched? But who could he trust to do that? He did not want to expose himself to ridicule by admitting that he thought he might have an unfaithful, wanton wife, and if he assigned a guard to her for her protection it would be impossible to know whether her guardsmen could be trusted.

Jon was the only one he could truly trust, but Stannis would not be able to order Jon to watch Sansa’s every footstep without some sort of explanation.

Stannis squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps Sansa truly had just become curious due to some animals she had seen?

With his eyes newly opened he decided not to take any action for now. He would attempt to watch her carefully when he could, and perhaps he would ask Jon about her habits and encourage him to make certain none of the other knights behaved inappropriately towards her. Hopefully Sansa wouldn’t ask him for a repeat performance - or for any other improper things - but if she did he would just have to refuse. He could prepare himself for it now that he knew that she might ask. He had only given into the lustful urge because she had surprised him.

That was all it had been: a moment of weakness brought about because he had not been prepared for Sansa to offer him such temptation.

Next time he would be prepared. He would simply tell her no, and perhaps he would ask her where she was _truly_ learning of such inappropriate matters. He was not the sort of brute to ever raise a hand to a woman, and especially not his wife - whom he had sworn to protect - but he could threaten to lock her away in her chambers if she did not confess _everything_ to him. That would surely make her speak.

Even with his mind thus made up, he was unable to calm down enough to sleep for a very long time.


	12. Lemons and Silk

Sansa felt happier than she could remember feeling since she had arrived in the stormlands. Her family was due to arrive soon and she had finally settled into a manageable routine as Lady of Storm’s End. She had a much firmer grasp on all of her duties than she’d had at the beginning, and she was no longer getting lost around the castle when Lady wasn’t with her to lead the way with her sensitive nose.

Just that morning she had a meeting with the steward, and she was very pleased with how it had gone. Initially Aren Florent had argued with her when she had told him that they should order more lemons for the kitchens, but Sansa had pointed out that Lord Stannis was very fond of lemon water, and could therefore hardly object to the expense, which had prompted Aren to accept the order. Aren did not need to know that Sansa wanted more lemons because she missed lemon cakes and wanted them to become readily available to her again.

The only thing that cast a shadow on her fine mood was the fact that her husband had been very preoccupied and distant ever since the night they had _experimented_. He had continued to visit her at night, but less frequently, and he did not give her the chance to speak to him of anything consequential when he did, much less suggest they try more new things. He had not stayed the night with her once, and Sansa was starting to feel rather confused about it all.

Sansa pushed her thoughts of Lord Stannis’ strange behaviour from her mind and turned her attention to her needlework for a little while, concentrating on getting the direwolf sigil just right. She had already finished embroidering a Baratheon stag on the other end of the little table cloth, and she thought it would look lovely on the sideboard in her comfortable, spacious solar. Lady Penrose and Shireen were sitting with her, though neither of them were sewing as she was. Shireen was reading a book and Lady Penrose was perusing a long letter.

Soon her thoughts drifted back to her excitement at seeing her family again, and she lost herself in trying to count the days since she had last seen them. She could hardly believe it had nearly been an entire moon’s turn.

But could that really be? If it had been that long, should her moon blood not have come? 

Sansa furrowed her brow and put her needlework aside, trying to remember when last she had bled. It had been before the wedding, hadn’t it? She remembered feeling relieved that she was no longer bleeding a day or two before her wedding day…

She usually always bled once every month. Sometimes four weeks passed before her moon time came again, sometimes five, but never six or seven.

Sansa stood up and paced around her solar in agitation, causing Shireen and Lady Penrose to look up in surprise.

“I must go speak to Maester Pylos,” Sansa said, responding to their curious gazes, “please stay here if you like, I will return shortly.”

Sansa did not linger to hear what their responses might be, leaving so hurriedly that her skirts whipped around her feet as if she were standing outside in a gale.

Thankfully it was easy to find Maester Pylos as he was ensconced in his study. Sansa would probably have sought Maester Cressen if she had been unable to find Maester Pylos, but she was glad to speak to Pylos rather than Cressen as she was not entirely sure Cressen would keep her secrets from Stannis. She did not want her husband to know that she suspected she might be pregnant. Her mother had taught her that it was always difficult to be certain at first, and she had warned Sansa that it was not uncommon for women to miss their moon time only to bleed more heavily a little later on.

 _“Always have a Maester confirm you are with child beyond a doubt before telling your husband,”_ her mother had said, _“it is not a matter to be treated lightly.”_

Sansa put the memory aside and smiled weakly at Maester Pylos who was looking at her in surprise.

“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, Maester, but I have a matter of considerable importance to discuss with you,” Sansa began, relieved when her voice sounded strong and steady.

“Not at all, my lady, what may I assist you with?” Pylos asked solemnly, gesturing at a pair of comfortable seats and rising from his desk to sit next to her.

Once they were both seated and her had offered to call for tea - she politely declined - Sansa explained the reason for her visit.

“Has your moon time ever been late or irregular before?”

“No,” Sansa whispered, feeling dreadfully nervous but strangely excited, too.

“And have you been feeling unusual recently?”

“I… I’m not sure what you mean. Unusual how?”

“Have any parts of your body felt increasingly sensitive or tender?” Pylos asked, glancing at her breasts briefly in a way that Sansa was certain was not the leering way some of the knights sometimes looked at her when Jon, Ghost or Lady were not with her. (They did not even dare to look at her face if Lord Stannis was near.) She was almost certain he meant to ask if her breasts had been feeling tender, and her eyes widened as she realised that they _had._ She hadn’t really thought anything of it, however.

“Yes, I’ve been very tender,” she whispered, her eyes still wide as she stared at Maester Pylos.

“Hm. Have you felt ill? Nauseated?”

“No, not really. Though, I did feel very put off by the smell coming from the kitchen when I walked by yesterday.”

“I see,” Maester Pylos said thoughtfully, “you could very well be with child, my lady, but it is impossible to be certain at such an early stage. Let me know if your moon time comes and please seek me out of you experience any nausea. There are tinctures that can help.”

Sansa nodded gratefully. “You won’t tell Lord Stannis, will you?” she asked, clasping her hands together and trying not to fidget.

“No, I doubt it is wise to alert Lord Stannis quite so soon, my lady,” Maester Pylos said.

Sansa nodded again and was about to stand up and take her leave when she thought of a worrying question.

“If I am with child… will it hurt it if Lord Stannis and I continue to… um,” she blushed, unable to think of a suitable term to use.

“Coupling will not hurt you or any child you might be carrying,” Maester Pylos said calmly, “it is perfectly safe for a pregnant woman to lie with a man if that is her wish. I would not recommend it when the time to deliver the babe draws very near, however.”

Still blushing quite deeply, Sansa stood up. “Thank you, Maester Pylos. I shall come to you if there are any changes,” she said as calmly as she could.

***

Sansa was looking for Jon. Well, she was really looking for Lady, and she knew Lady was with Ghost, but she had no idea where Ghost was. Jon might know, however, thus her need to find him. She suspected he was out in the training yard with the other knights, so that was where she was currently headed.

As always she had to take a moment to prepare herself for the way some of the knights stared at her when she was alone, reminding herself that they didn’t mean anything by it, and that they would never do anything inappropriate.

She walked quietly into the yard, trying to remain unnoticed and keeping to the shadows near the walls. She scanned the yard and spotted Jon quickly enough. He was in the middle of a sparring match, so Sansa decided to watch and wait for him to finish. Jon was an excellent fighter, and Sansa felt proud of him as she saw him gracefully avoid being hit with the practise sword, moving swiftly and fluidly even in his armour.

“How are things going with you and that kitchen maid - what was her name?” asked Ser William Foxglove, directing his question at the nearby Ser Humfrey Clifton. They were standing close to Sansa, but they hadn’t noticed her as she was cloaked in shadow.

“Brigot? She’s still refusing to come to my bed, the wench,” Ser Humfrey said, sounding mildly irritated about it.

“Oh, not as charming as you thought you were? I recall you saying something about how you’d have her on her back before the end of this week!” Ser William chortled.

“I may not have had her on her back, but I had her on her knees just last night,” Ser Humfrey bragged, unconcernedly.

 _On her knees?_ Sansa wondered if he meant that he had taken Brigot the kitchen maid as Lord Stannis had taken her before he became so distant and peculiar.

“Oh, aye, I think half the men in this keep have had their cocks in that mouth!” Ser William crowed.

Sansa blinked. _In her… mouth?_

“You think that’s a bad thing?” Ser Humfrey asked, sounding amused, “she sucks like she was born to do it, I’ll have you know. I’ll take a woman who knows what to do with her mouth over any cunt!”

“You’re just saying that because no woman wants to spread her legs for you!”

“No, I stand by my words. Even a mediocre suckjob is better than your average fuck,” Ser Humfrey insisted.

“I doubt you’re fucking them right, then. Are you finding the right hole?”

“Ah, bugger off.”

They both laughed uproariously and walked to the training area, unaware of how they had just made the Lady of Storm’s End blush to the roots of her hair.

Jon found her soon after, but thankfully he did not comment on her red face.

“Ghost and Lady are over in the kennels, frightening all the dogs no doubt,” Jon told her when she asked, offering to come with her to find them. She declined the offer and told him to keep practising, complimenting his skills with the sword and garnering a rare, wide smile for her efforts. The smile she returned was not quite as bright as she was still a little perturbed by the conversation she had overheard between the two knights.

***

“What is the meaning of this?” Stannis growled, waving a ledger at Sansa and looking very cross.

He had pulled her aside as she had been on her way to dinner, drawing her into an empty den. The fire was not yet lit in the grate, and there was a gloomy quality to the air in the room.

Sansa looked at the ledger blankly, unsure of what Stannis meant. She gave him a helpless look. “The meaning of what, my lord?” she asked in a small voice.

“You have seen fit to double the usual order for lemons, you have sent for expensive, dyed embroidery threads, Myrish lace and several bolts of silk, and you have hired a _harpist,_ ” he hissed, his face reddening and a vein on the side of his neck throbbing. She had trouble looking away from it, but she forced herself to look at his angry eyes instead.

“I - I wanted to continue learning the high harp, my lord,” Sansa stammered, “and Shireen needs new gowns. She has outgrown most of her old ones.”

“I highly doubt Shireen needs silk gowns trimmed with _Myrish lace,_ ” Stannis spat, still looking furious, “have you any idea how costly these frivolous things are?”

Sansa blanched and shook her head. She had never been very good with numbers, but she had not thought that it would matter much. Aren Florent dealt with all of that, and Storm’s End was not a poor keep. A musician's salary, a few extra lemons, and a bit of fabric could hardly be ruining them.

“I will not tolerate unnecessary spending, girl,” Stannis said harshly, glaring at her.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from insisting that everything she had ordered _had_ been necessary. They were all things that made her happy. Did Stannis not think her happiness was worth a few coins? Anyway, it was unheard of for a castle to be completely devoid of musicians, and Shireen was a high lord’s daughter. She deserved to be dressed in the finest materials, and it reflected poorly on Stannis that he let her be seen in substandard fabrics and unfashionable cuts.

“I understand, my lord,” she said instead, trying to sound meek and not put out and belligerent.

“From now on you will consult me before placing an order for anything costly and out of the ordinary,” Stannis demanded, sounding slightly mollified. She hoped it was because she had not argued with him.

“If that is your will, my husband,” she agreed, bowing her head and feeling like a chastened child. It was rather like Stannis had just stepped on her, squashing her feelings and making her smaller, somehow.

“It is,” he snapped. He seemed to be calming down, however, as the vein on his neck was no longer bulging and throbbing.

“Should I - I mean - will I have to tell the harpist to go?” she asked in her small voice, feeling heartbroken at the idea of having to give up on her dream of learning the high harp. What was the point of having wed a southron lord if he would not allow her to hire a single harpist?

Stannis narrowed his eyes at her. “How long has he been here?” he asked.

“Lady Nyta has been here but a week,” Sansa answered, thinking of how disappointing it would be if she had to leave after such a short stay. Thankfully, Stannis seemed to relax a little when he heard the name of the lady harpist. Hope swelled within her at the sight, and she risked an imploring gaze at her husband, promising the old gods and the new that she would redouble her efforts at prayer if Stannis would only allow Lady Nyta to stay.

“She may stay a moon’s turn. If you feel you are improving under her tutelage we may discuss allowing her to stay on for longer,” Stannis said, his words clipped and precise.

Sansa felt as if a crushing weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She had only had two lessons with Lady Nyta thus far, but she would make sure to spend much more time with the talented harpist from now on. She would make _certain_ that she improved so that Lady Nyta might be allowed to stay.

“Thank you, my lord.” Sansa bowed her head again, but gratefully this time.

Stannis just made an irritated sound. When she looked up he was still scowling and his eyes were still rather angry.

“Shall we go to dinner now?” Sansa asked timidly, hoping that Stannis would not stay angry for long.

“Yes,” he said simply, striding out the door without escorting her.

She followed in his wake, feeling frustrated. Why did he have to be so _difficult?_

She was relieved that she had ordered a bit of fabric for herself since she had been ordering silks for Shireen anyway. It would be enough to make a gown or two for her use and they would tide her over for a while, but when the fashion changed she would simply have to renew her wardrobe. 

How would she ever manage to get Stannis to agree to the sorts of silks and lace that she would need for herself?

***

It was well past midnight.

Stannis had not warned her to expect him this night, and Sansa was lying in bed and attempting to fall asleep. Lady had climbed on the bed with her, taking up nearly all of the space, but Sansa did not have the heart to scold her and order her to sleep on her sheepskin like she usually did. Still, smelling Lady’s breath was not making it easy for her to find rest, and the wolf kept growling and whining alternatively -- reflecting Sansa’s tumultuous mood.

Her thoughts drifted to Lord Stannis and she felt as if her chest were being squeezed too tightly. She didn’t understand why he had been so distant with her for the past week and she was still upset due to the dressing down he had given her before dinner. Before the night she had told him about the stag and the doe he had not been very warm, but he had been talking to her a little more every day, and he had been kind and attentive to her when he bedded her. She wanted things to go back to how they had been between them because she could imagine telling _that_ Stannis about her pregnancy once she was certain of it. She really didn’t know how this new, even colder Stannis would react to the news.

She was almost sure he would be pleased regardless of whether he was feeling warm or cold towards her, but she could imagine the warmer version embracing her and maybe even smiling, while the cold version would surely only nod and say something like: ‘good.’

Had he disliked that she had suggested they try something different when he bedded her? Was that the reason why he had been so distant? Had it contributed to making him so angry about a few lemons and some silk? He had seemed to enjoy it quite a lot at the time, but perhaps she had misunderstood...

A terrifying thought struck her. _Had he grown bored with her?_

He was coming to her bed less often now, and he seemed less engaged with the whole process, though he still made certain he did not hurt her. It was as if he had retreated behind a wall and she could not reach him. Could those things simply mean that the novelty of bedding her had worn off?

Sansa sat up, feeling nauseated in a way she doubted had anything to do with the fact that she might be with child. 

If Stannis _was_ bored with her, what could she do to make him interested again? She could not bear the thought of him treating her as coldly as he had been doing for the past week for the rest of their marriage. She missed his hand combing through her hair, his embrace, and his kisses. She missed the way he actually seemed to like her while he bedded her. If he took his kind attentions away she was left with nothing but his irritability and his scowls.

_Even a mediocre suckjob is better than your average fuck._

She had been trying to forget the conversation she had overheard in the training yard that day, but Ser Humfrey’s words repeated themselves in her memory, making her curious and giving her an Idea.

She stood up and walked to the main door of her chamber, but hesitated. She turned and walked to the tapestry that hid the door to the secret passage instead, and tried the handle. To her delight it was unlocked, and she had to suppress a squeal of excitement and nervousness as she thought about what she was setting out to do. Was she really going to try it? Sneak into her husband’s chamber uninvited?

Well, he had left the door unlocked. That was practically like an invitation, so she wouldn’t _really_ be sneaking in uninvited.

Sansa took several deep breaths and squared her shoulders. She could do this.

The passage was quite short, and it took no time at all to find the door on the other end. She tried the handle very carefully and found that this door, too, was unlocked. It creaked horribly as she pushed it open, causing Sansa to freeze and her heart to pound with fright. After a few moments, when there was no indication of Stannis having been disturbed by the sound, Sansa began to breathe easily again. She waited until her heartbeat had slowed to a less frantic rate and squeezed through the door without opening it further.

It was almost completely dark in Lord Stannis’ chamber, but there were embers in the hearth that she could see a little by. The lord’s chamber was much larger than her own, but it was decorated sparsely and seemed to contain mostly useful, sturdy furnishings. The bed was the only opulent piece of furniture in the room, an ornate four-poster carved from a type of wood that Sansa could not distinguish in the gloom, with heavy velvet hangings that were drawn. Sansa could hear slow, even breathing emanating from the bed and surmised that Stannis was sleeping.

She scrounged up every bit of bravery in her body and walked towards the bed, her hand reaching for the hangings to create a gap she could crawl through. She left the gap open so that the embers from the hearth could continue to light her way. Stannis was lying on his back, his brow furrowed, and his bedclothes tangled around the lower part of his body. His chest was bare, rising and falling steadily, and one arm was thrown across his middle. Stannis’ lips were slightly parted, tempting Sansa to kiss him awake, but she thought she might only get one opportunity to try her Idea, so she decided to start working on his tangled bedclothes instead. They weren’t quite as difficult to move out of the way as she had feared, and soon she had exposed the laces of the soft breeches he tended to sleep in. With a short prayer to the old gods and the new, she reached for the laces and undid them with her nimble fingers, amazed at how steady her hands were.

He was exposed before her, and Sansa couldn’t help the blush that crept to her cheeks at what she was doing. It didn’t feel at all like a thing a proper lady would ever attempt, but she was determined to prove to Stannis that he should not be bored with her. She would surprise him, and he would enjoy it if what Ser Humfrey said was true. If it was as wonderful as Ser Humfrey said, maybe Stannis would even forget that he was angry with her?

Watching his face carefully, Sansa reached for his soft manhood and touched it gently. Stannis did not stir, and Sansa’s confidence increased. Feeling a little foolish, she bent her head down and brought her lips to the soft, wrinkled bit of flesh between her husband’s legs and kissed him softly, her tongue darting out to taste him. The smell was much stronger than the taste, but neither was very unpleasant. He smelled a little like the air sometimes smelled after they had lain together, though it was not quite the same. It was a musky, heavy smell that was stronger near the wiry black hairs at the base of his manhood. The taste of him was the same as any skin she had tasted, and did not leave much of an impression on her.

Tentatively, she began to kiss and lick at him the way she had explored other parts of his body and she was pleased when he started to respond to the stimulation. Feeling curious, and remembering that the two knights she had overheard had talked of _sucking_ she took his manhood into her mouth and sucked gently on the mostly soft flesh. He immediately hardened further and she felt a thrill of success. _It was working!_

She tried it again, sucking gently until he was fully engorged and she was no longer able to keep much more than the head of him in her mouth. His manhood was twitching and jumping strangely, so she grabbed the base of his shaft with one hand to keep him still, continuing her gentle ministrations as best she could.

Suddenly there was a gasp and Stannis’ body tensed up, the muscles of his thighs becoming rock hard, his abdomen tightening up, and his muscles rippling as he propped himself up on his elbows to look down at her. _”Sansa?”_

Sansa looked up at him, still sucking gently on the head of his manhood and holding him still with her hand, hoping he would just lie back down and let her do this for him.

“Seven fucking hells, what are you _doing?_ ” he groaned, staring at her in disbelief.

She pulled back, releasing him from her mouth and letting her hold on him go. “Do you not like it?” she asked him, blushing hotly.

Stannis spluttered for a moment before letting himself fall back down to his pillow and making a sound that was both frustrated and a little strangled before covering his face with both his hands to muffle it.

Sansa decided to interpret the sound as permission to continue, so she reached her hand for his manhood, holding him gently, but firmly enough to keep him in place, and licked the head before enveloping it with her lips again. The taste of him had changed, she noticed. It was more bitter and salty now, and not entirely pleasant. It was not terrible, however, so she started to suck gently in spite of the taste. To her surprise he bucked up in response, forcing himself deeper into her mouth and making her gag. She pulled back hurriedly, her eyes watering. She wasn’t sure if she dared to ask him not to do that again, but decided to place the palm of her free hand on top of his hip bone and press down slightly, hoping he would understand her wordless request to keep still.

When she returned her mouth to her task she heard Stannis make a broken sound that caused a familiar sensation of heat move through her, pooling between her thighs. The sounds he made in response to her touches and kisses had always been arousing to her, but this was more intense than usual.

She started to experiment; trying to get him to make more of those noises. She found that he seemed to like it when she sucked a little harder, and the gasp that escaped him when she moved to adjust her grip on him prompted her to move her hand again until she realised he was panting for her to grip his manhood firmly and move her hand up and down along the length of him, sliding the thin, soft layer of skin over the hardness beneath.

One of his hands was suddenly buried in her hair, pressing her down insistently as he pushed his hips up at the same time. He was trying to push himself deeper inside her mouth, but it only made her gag again and pull away before she had to start coughing and spluttering. At the loss of contact he actually made a sound that she would have called a whimper if it hadn’t just come from _Stannis._

“Please,” he begged, his voice raw.

She realised he was asking her to try to put more of him inside her mouth, but she didn’t know if she _could._ It was really difficult!

“Please don’t push,” she scolded gently, pressing her palm down on his hip again.

She took him into her mouth and started moving her hand the way he seemed to like. His fingers remained tangled in the hair at the back of her head, but he wasn’t trying to push her down, nor was he lifting his hips. At her own pace she started to attempt to fit more than just the head of his manhood inside her mouth. She found that if she went slowly, she was able to take more of him in; nearly half if she really tried. She couldn’t keep him in her mouth like that for very long as she needed to pull back to breathe, but by listening to the sounds Stannis was making she figured out that he liked it when she alternatively took him in as much as she could and then released him. He did _not_ like it when her teeth scraped up against his skin, however, so she attempted to avoid that as much as she could. When she figured out how to match the movement of her hand with the movement of her mouth, Stannis’ grip on her hair tightened, he bucked up in a way that she realised had to be involuntary, and he let out his loudest moan of pleasure yet. He _really_ liked this.

It was not easy to coordinate everything she was doing, but she eventually found a rhythm that allowed her to take shallow breaths often enough to keep her from feeling severe discomfort. Thankfully, this new rhythm was bringing Stannis to his release quite fast, and soon she could tell that he was right on the edge. He was tensing up, panting loudly and jerking his hips in that way she recognised as beyond his conscious control. The hand that was tangled in her hair was starting to grip her almost painfully, but she ignored it since she knew he would be finished soon.

A second before his release she remembered that his seed would need to go somewhere, and that if she didn’t move out of the way it would go into her _mouth._ She really disliked the idea, but it was too late. Stannis was groaning something that sounded like her name, and her mouth was filling with warm liquid that carried a stronger version of the bitter and salty taste than she had just grown used to. She wanted to move her head back and she wanted to spit it out, but he was too deep inside her mouth and his grip on the back of her head was preventing her from being able to get anywhere. She started to cough and choke despite her best effort not to, and that caused Stannis to let her go.

She sat up on her heels and continued to cough for a little while, blinking rapidly to clear her vision as her eyes had watered again, trying to catch her breath. She could feel something warm and viscous dribbling down her chin, and she wiped at it with the back of her hand, feeling embarrassed because she could feel Stannis’ eyes on her. She didn’t feel like she could meet his gaze quite yet, so she closed her eyes.

They were both silent for a while, Stannis’ loud, ragged breathing the only sound to be heard.

“Come here,” he said at last, and she opened her eyes to see that he was offering her a place next to him. When she obediently went to his side, he wrapped an arm around her and held her close. She sighed with pleasure and wriggled around until she felt comfortable. It had been more than a week since he had last held her like this, and she had missed it.

“Explain yourself,” he demanded, his grip tightening and becoming uncomfortable. She suddenly felt like she was being held prisoner instead of simply being held. Sansa felt herself blush crimson in response to the harsh demand, and she turned her face towards him, hiding it against his chest. Her heart was beating very fast and it was difficult to breathe while feeling so trapped and embarrassed.

“I was afraid you had grown bored with me, my lord,” she mumbled against his chest, knowing that with him it was always best to just be honest. Even if it was mortifying.

“Bored?” he snapped, sounding startled and perhaps a little incredulous.

“You’ve been so distant,” she mumbled again, feeling very small and foolish.

“My lady…” he began, his voice strained.

“I just want you to be pleased with me,” she interrupted, lifting her head so that she could give him an imploring look, “please don’t be cross.”

“You do not have to demean yourself in order to please me, my lady,” he said in the same strained tone, “I am not some wanton - I do not require such things.”

“I am your wife, my lord,” Sansa said, feeling confused, “it is my duty to please you. Doing so does not demean me,” she explained shyly. “I enjoy it…” she added in an embarrassed whisper.

Stannis’ arm tightened even more and Sansa made a small frightened noise when she realised she could not breathe. He loosened his grip only slightly, but it was enough so that she was no longer frightened.

“It is your duty to bear my heirs. It is not your duty to _debase_ yourself for my _pleasure,_ ” he argued, spitting the words out as if they were distasteful to him.

“Is it very improper of me to want to pleasure you even if you do not consider it my duty, my lord?” she asked, mumbling embarrassedly again. Stannis was silent so she lifted her head to look at him again, wanting to see his reaction to her words. He was staring at her and clenching his jaw noticeably. She blushed and ducked her head again, wondering if she should try to explain herself better. When the silence stretched on, she felt compelled to speak.

“I enjoy the way - the way you take me, my lord,” she stammered breathlessly, “I enjoy trying different things,” she hesitated before plunging ahead recklessly, “I liked the way you took me the night I told you what I saw in the woods and I -”

“Sansa… !” Stannis gasped, sounding a little scandalised, interrupting her and causing her to fall into an embarrassed silence.

He sat up, forcing her to sit up, too, and face him. They looked at each other, and Sansa understood that Stannis was not scandalised as much as he was embarrassed and... angry?

“Have I offended you, my lord?” she asked meekly, willing the heat in her cheeks to go away.

“I - no,” Stannis spluttered, staring at her and bringing a hand up to rub at his face. His hand fell away and he gave her a hard, piercing look. “Were you enjoying yourself just now? When I filled your mouth with my seed as if you were some _whore_? Do not lie,” he demanded harshly.

Sansa blanched. Hearing him refer to her as whorish made her innards turn to ice. Had she made a grave error? Using her mouth to pleasure Stannis had seemed like an interesting idea when it had been an abstract notion, but the reality of it had been decidedly uncomfortable. She had not enjoyed it when she had been coughing and near choking on the bitter taste of his seed, and neither was she enjoying the way the taste was still lingering in her mouth. But she _had_ enjoyed the sounds he had made, and she had liked the way he had been at her mercy. She had never heard him beg for _anything_ until tonight. Did liking those things make her a whore?

“It was difficult,” she whispered, “and I do not think I should like to do it very often,” she continued timidly, “but I did enjoy parts of it.” It was difficult to own to it, but she would not lie.

Stannis scoffed, but he looked intrigued nonetheless. _Which parts?_ she could see him thinking, and she started to hope that he had not truly meant to imply that she was a whore for doing what she had done. If he had enjoyed it - if he had _allowed it_ \- did that not sanction the act? Surely he could not mean to hurt her by calling her such names? It was too cruel. Did men sometimes speak in such a crass manner without meaning anything by it? Or perhaps he had just wanted to shock her?

She would prove to him that she was not so easily shocked. 

“I liked how much you seemed to enjoy it, my lord,” she explained, “the sounds you make when I please you give me pleasure in turn,” she admitted, feeling as if her face had caught fire. Should she tell him that she had liked the power she had felt over him? No, he would probably not like to know that, she thought. He was too proud.

How could he possibly think of her as whorish for enjoying herself when he did? It wasn’t _fair._

Stannis was breathing a little more quickly than he usually did and his eyes were very dark in the dim light.

“From whom did you learn of this act?” he suddenly asked, turning his dark eyes on her, suspicion pulling the corners of his mouth down.

Sansa hesitated, still blushing hotly. Did he mean to imply that he thought some man had taught her this? No, that couldn’t be it as it had surely been abundantly clear that she had never tried it before. He was probably just asking who had told her of the act. She felt a little indignant and embarrassed, but forced herself to tell the truth. “I heard some knights speaking of it.”

“Which knights? I will have their names,” Stannis growled, clearly incensed.

“Will you punish them?” Sansa asked timidly, not wishing to cause trouble for Ser Humfrey and Ser William.

“Yes,” Stannis bit out.

“But they did not realise I could hear them, it would not be just to punish them for the misfortune of being overheard,” Sansa said imploringly, hoping that Stannis would not continue to insist she reveal the names of the two knights.

“You spied on them?” Stannis asked incredulously.

“Not intentionally, my lord,” Sansa said, feeling ashamed of herself.

Stannis sighed and rubbed at his beard as if it were causing him discomfort.

“I did truly enjoy the way you took me a week ago,” she said, wanting to convince him and distract him from the idea of punishing Ser William and Ser Humfrey, “and I truly want to try different ways of lying with you, if there are any more that would please you.” Sansa hoped this admission would not result in more of Stannis’ scorn or cause further talk of _whores._

She truly did enjoy pleasing him when they lay together at night as he was so very difficult to please during the day. When he was inside her he thought she was perfect. He didn’t say it, but every sound he made and every expression that flitted across his face as he took her told her so. She relished the way he seemed to adore her when he was inside her quite as much as she relished the purely physical pleasure he gave her.

Would he believe her? Would he regret his harsh words and tell her about other things that they could try to make up for his error? He had to know about everything there was possible to do. He was certainly old enough, and he must have heard things from other men even if he hadn’t tried everything there was to try himself. Sansa knew that it was not unusual for men to talk to one another as Ser Humfrey and Ser William had; she had overheard Theon talking often enough to understand that.

“We can discuss it later,” Stannis said at length, sounding a little strained again, “it’s late.”

Sansa felt much too perturbed, excited and confused to sleep, but she recognised the tone of finality in Stannis’ voice, and decided to try to to rest even though she felt like she could stay awake for hours. She wanted him to be kind to her instead of behaving so coldly. She wanted him to take her, show her that he was not angry with her, and help her release the tension that had built inside of her. Despite her confusion and her hurt feelings she felt warm and wet and _ready_ , but she didn’t think it would be wise to ask for her husband’s attentions as Stannis already seemed to be drifting off to sleep.

It took her a while, and she had to do a lot of uncomfortable squirming that ended with her hands guiltily creeping down her body to bring herself to a small peak as quickly as she could so that her hitched breathing wouldn’t wake Stannis, but she eventually managed to fall asleep.


	13. A Generous Offer

Stannis woke up at his usual early hour and was immediately startled by the warm presence in his bed. Sansa hadn't been in his chambers before, so it took some getting used to. Thankfully she was fast asleep, and had not heard the embarrassing noise he had made upon discovering her.

Once he was properly awake and aware of his surroundings, he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying not to disturb Sansa. He looked down at her sleeping form and shook his head incredulously. Had she truly crept into bed with him in the middle of the night and woken him up by taking his cock into her mouth? 

_Because she was worried he was bored with her?_

Any other woman he had ever known would have counted herself fortunate to be rid of his interest, and yet his wife was keen enough to keep his to do something no lady ought ever be required to do.

Had she been truthful when she had said that she had learnt of this degrading act by listening to his knights talking to one another?

Stannis had often heard men speak of the pleasure of a woman’s mouth, so it was not unlikely that Sansa could have heard such a conversation, but it was rather a leap to go from hearing of such a thing to putting it into practise. The idea of locking her up and threatening her until she told him the exact truth resurfaced, and he clenched his jaw in response, wondering if it was time to take such drastic measures.

She had seemed so sincere when she had explained that she had only overheard the inappropriate conversation by mistake...

He, himself, usually ignored bawdy talk of indecent acts, thinking that surely the men responsible for it were exaggerating how wonderful they supposedly were. Men always proclaimed that bedding a woman was sublime bliss, too, and yet he had never found it to be much more than a pleasant release that came with unpleasant awkwardness. Of course, that had been before he had married Sansa.

Now he was starting to wonder if everything he had ever heard was true. (Well, everything except Robert’s absurd boasts. Stannis refused to believe those tall tales.)

Waking up with Sansa’s mouth on him had possibly been the most pleasurable sensation of his life. It had taken him a while to realise it was not a dream, but when the sensation of a warm, wet mouth sucking gently on him had been joined by the feeling of a delicate hand wrapping around the shaft of his cock, the reality of it had become unavoidable.

To his shame he had not even been able to form the words that would ask her to stop inside his head, much less say them out loud. He had never felt a woman’s mouth _there_ , and the sensation had overwhelmed him completely. He had been terribly curious, too.

Terribly _weak._

The worst of it was that he knew he had behaved badly as she had been attempting to pleasure him. He had demanded more than she had easily been able to give, and he knew he had caused her unnecessary discomfort. He had seen the way her eyes had watered when he had first tried to push himself further into her mouth.

It had been utterly unseemly behaviour for a lord of his position, and guilt tugged uncomfortably at his conscience.

But it had not been his intention to treat her ill. His body had developed a mind of its own, his hips bucking without his permission, his hand pressing down on Sansa’s head completely without leave. He had just _needed_ it so badly... 

Seven hells, had he _begged?_ It was all a little hazy, but he was almost certain he had begged.

Suppressing a groan so as not to wake Sansa, he ended up lying back down. He would not be leaving bed while he felt so discomfited and embarrassed by his humiliating display during the night. How could he face his household? They wouldn’t know what had happened, but _he_ would know. That was enough.

Sansa rolled until she was quite close to him and he caught a whiff of her hair and her skin. He breathed deeply, feeling a little calmer due to the familiar scent.

He wondered, not for the first time, how it had come to pass that she was his. Sansa was uncomfortably young, spent his coin a little too liberally, and seemed to be utterly wanton, but she was _beautiful,_ courteous and graceful, and though it beggared belief, she _seemed_ sincerely devoted to him. She was sweet and gentle, and accepted him readily and kissed him as if he were truly desirable to her. Stannis could honestly say she was the best gift his brother had ever given him. But perhaps that was the joke? To give him such a beautiful, kind and _desirable_ lady to wed, only to force Stannis to abandon her for the Wall and a cold, miserable war? To force him to spend every waking moment doubting her and trying to ascertain whether she was betraying him as soon as his back was turned?

Did Robert intend for Stannis to torture himself with thoughts of what his young pretty wife would get up to while he was away? It was certainly torturous to think that some other man had taught her how to use her mouth like she had done. 

Or did Robert simply hope that once he became used to having ready access to a warm affectionate woman, he would fall into temptation while away from her and get a bastard on some tavern wench or whore? Stannis was sure that would amuse Robert to no end.

Stannis realised he was grinding his teeth rather loudly and forced himself to desist.

Sansa moved even closer to him, resting her head on his chest, throwing a leg across his body, and mumbling incoherently in her sleep. Her thigh was nudging his hardening cock, and he couldn’t help but recall her words about wanting to lie with him in any way that pleased him. His old fantasy of having her sit astride him and ride him like a horse came back, and he felt himself become fully aroused now that his imagination was so illicitly engaged.

Could she really enjoy pleasing him? Would she truly want to…?

“Good morning, my lord,” she whispered, her voice a little raspy with sleep. She pressed her thigh closer and obviously felt how hard he was as she made a small pleased noise at the back of her throat. It was an intensely attractive noise, and it made Stannis want to ask her if she wanted to try something different. Now.

“My lady,” he said instead, sounding hoarse and not quite as awake as he felt.

Sansa lifted her head from his chest so that she might look him in the eyes. She was chewing her bottom lip and furrowing her brow. “Are you still angry with me?” she asked softly, pressing her thigh rather impertinently against his arousal. Apparently she wanted to discuss the events of the night. Was she purposefully attempting to discuss them while she had him at a disadvantage? If so, she was being rather intolerably clever. 

“I wasn’t angry,” he argued, though he failed to sound convincing.

“You practically called me a whore,” she countered, her voice vulnerable and her lips taking on the shape of an accusing little pout.

Stannis grimaced. That had not been particularly lordly of him. But it had not been very ladylike of her to steal into his bed to _lick at his cock._ The memory of it made him want to rub up against Sansa’s thigh, but he restrained himself.

“No, I merely said that you exhibited behaviour that befitted one.” Stannis closed his eyes and bit back a groan when Sansa moved her thigh. _Gods._

“Oh,” she looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face, “is that not the same thing?”

“I was attempting to make you understand that what you did was not - er - ladylike,” Stannis grumbled, feeling himself redden.

Sansa tilted her head to the side and widened her eyes. “I know it was not very ladylike, but I thought you might like it,” she said earnestly, “would it please you if I did not attempt it again, my lord?”

Stannis felt as if a brief, bloody and violent war was being waged inside him. The fact that Sansa still had her soft thigh pressed firmly against his very _eager_ cock was not helping his rational mind win against his base instincts _at all._

“I haven’t decided,” he bit out, just barely keeping another groan from escaping.

They were silent for a little while as Stannis tried to fight the powerful urge to manhandle Sansa into position and _rut._

“You’re not angry that I like trying new things with you?” Sansa asked at length, sounding hopeful. Her pout was long gone, but he found himself missing the way her lower lip had been jutting out temptingly.

Angry? No, he supposed he was not angry. If he was quite honest with himself he knew it was likely that Sansa had told him the truth about what she had seen in the woods and the conversation she had overheard. Everything about her behaviour when he had questioned her indicated that she had been sincerely truthful and that she had not betrayed him. Only a very small part of him still doubted her, but he could not help but think that even if she hadn’t betrayed him already, she still _might._ If she could bring herself to desire _him_ it would surely not be difficult for her to start desiring more comely men when he was not able to quench her lust. It seemed depressingly inevitable.

Stannis was confused and very suspicious about the fact that she was so interested in trying all these... things, but no, he was not _angry._

“No, my lady.”

Sansa sighed happily as she moved her thigh again, and this time Stannis was unable to suppress the noise of pleasure her movement coerced from him.

“Must you leave, or do you have a little time to spare?” she asked shyly, still deliberately moving her thigh to nudge him suggestively.

“I have time,” he said a little too quickly, betraying his cursed, _foolish_ eagerness.

She kissed him, and as always when she initiated a kiss she was hesitant at first, but gained confidence when he accepted her attentions readily. They did not spend a long time exploring one another’s mouths with their tongues as they rarely tasted quite right so early in the day, choosing instead to take turns kissing and licking at the other’s necks.

Waiting until Sansa was ready was never easy, and Stannis was moving his hand between her thighs impatiently before he really meant to. He was surprised and pleased to find her already quite damp, and he immediately set about pulling her smallclothes and her nightgown off. His breeches were unlaced, but he decided to take the time to pull them completely off, too.

His eyes met Sansa’s and he could see desire and curiosity in them. He felt himself flush as he considered asking her to sit astride him. His mind was consumed by the idea. He’d have a glorious view of her teats, and it would be very interesting to know if it felt any different with her on top of him for a change.

“Did you think of something you would like to try, my lord? Something new?” she asked shyly, reading him much too well. “I’d like to, if you have,” she added, smiling nervously, “if you do not think it improper.”

Why was she such a temptress? Could she truly be innocent and unfamiliar with other men and still unmake him this way? Was it possible? Resisting her certainly was not. 

Not in his current state.

He got on his back and gave her a stern look to make sure she would not react to his suggestion with mirth or derision.

“Sit astride me,” he instructed, trying to hide his sudden fear that she would simply refuse.

He needn’t have worried. Sansa complied without a word, swiftly moving to do as he asked. She sat just below his groin, obviously trying not to trap his cock between her body and his. Did she not understand that he intended for her to take him inside of her?

“Rise up,” he said impatiently. He had no idea how it was best to go about this, and she did not appear to know either. It was a comfort to him to see the evidence of her inexperience, and he was certain that her surprise was genuine when she finally understood his intention. Her eyes widened, becoming very large, and she blinked rapidly at him.

“A lady can go on top?” she asked in a hushed voice, sounding curious and intrigued.

“Yes,” he said brusquely, busy lining his cock up with her entrance now that she had risen up and given him access. It felt good to rub the head against her soft, wet folds, so he took a little longer in finding the right place than strictly necessary. “Lower yourself down,” he said, trying to sound confident and in command. It was intolerable how often he felt out of control as they coupled.

Sansa obeyed, but she went much more slowly than he had expected. Usually when he entered her he accomplished it in one smooth stroke. She, on the other hand, was wriggling and working him in inch by inch, making her attractive little noises and obviously attempting to drive him mad.

Since all of his willpower seemed to be occupied with allowing Sansa to set the pace, his hands managed to develop a will of their own and find their way to her rear. Sansa made an embarrassed - but pleased - little noise when he was unable to resist the temptation to squeeze the supple flesh lightly.

Finally she had taken him all in, the pretty red curls of her mound contrasting with the mess of coarse dark hairs that grew all around his cock. His hands were still rather indecently occupied, but they were well positioned to keep her still as he bucked up experimentally, needing to feel friction -- not just her tight, wet hold on him.

Sansa winced at the sharp movement, however, so he didn’t do it again.

“Is this not… is it painful? For you?” he asked, hardly able to get a coherent sentence out.

“No, my lord,” Sansa said, blushing and leaning her body closer to him, bringing her teats distractingly near, “it’s just a little different,” she continued, squirming around in a way that forced him to close his eyes to hide how they were rolling up into the back of his head. “Could you… could you perhaps not move quite yet? I need to get used to - _oh!_ ”

Sansa had been squirming around as she spoke, moving her body back and forth and rocking against him gently. She was clearly attempting to get comfortable, and from the sound of things she had found an angle she liked. Stannis was very relieved that she had, because it was torture to be inside of her and not _moving._ Or at least not moving _enough._

With the right angle found, she thankfully started to rock against him rhythmically, and he hissed out a breath in appreciation. He released his hold on her rear and reached for her hips instead so that he might steer her. His possessive grip allowed him to encourage her to move more decisively, but soon he lost control of himself and he started lifting her up and pulling her down roughly; thrusting upwards every time he pulled her down.

“Oh! My lord! Oh, oh, _oh!_ ” Sansa gasped out, sounding rather like she was enjoying herself. He spared a glance at her face and confirmed that she looked just as she usually did when he took her. It was an expression of mixed concentration and pure pleasure that he had grown very fond of, and he wished he could be certain he would be the only man to ever see it. Frustrated by the thought, he went back to staring at the way her teats were bouncing, trying to distract himself. He reached to touch one, stroking his thumb as gently as he could across the lovely pink tip and liking the squeal Sansa made in response. He could have sworn her inner muscles tightened around him, too.

He would not last for very much longer.

His breaths were coming out harsh and loud as he returned both hands to her hips and continued to push and pull Sansa in time with his thrusts. He could tell that she was helping - her thighs were tensing with the effort - and he sped everything up, moaning helplessly as his climax neared. Hopefully Sansa couldn’t hear him over her own moans.

He became lost to the outside world when his release flooded him with pleasure. He wouldn’t have known if the king himself had marched into his chambers stark naked. All he knew was that he was warm and lying comfortably on his back instead of trembling with the effort of keeping from crushing the lady underneath him. He became sensible to the events around him after a little while, and he noticed that Sansa was still moving, grinding herself on him and gasping with pleasure.

He reached up to pinch her nipples, knowing she usually liked that, but was dismayed when she flinched away from his fingers.

“Please, my lord,” she said breathlessly, “gently…”

He hadn’t pinched hard at all! He scowled and glared at her suspiciously. Sansa had her eyes closed and did not notice, however. Moments later she was speeding up, her inner muscles clamping down on him in a way that would have forced him to finish if he hadn’t already, shuddering and gasping with pleasure.

He wished he could be sure he was the only man who ever got to see _that,_ too.

Sansa was still sitting on top of him, breathing heavily and causing her chest to rise and fall in a mesmerising way. He would have liked to keep her astride him until nightfall, but the moment was interrupted when Jon knocked on his door.

“Lord Stannis?” the young knight called out through the door, sounding a little concerned.

Stannis closed his eyes and groaned. He had been meant to meet with Ser Jon in the training yard some time ago…

“I’ll meet you out in the training yard shortly, ser,” he called hoarsely, feeling very awkward indeed about talking to his wife’s brother while still _inside his wife_. His cock was softening rapidly, however, so that would not be his situation for much longer.

Sansa seemed to be both mortified and… amused? She attempted to look more serious when she noticed him looking at her, but he had seen the mirth in her eyes.

“Off with you,” he grumbled, feeling no real ire but wanting to get his day started.

Sansa eased herself to the side and sank against a pillow with a contented sigh. She looked like she might fall asleep if he did not act, so he touched her arm to get her attention.

“You should return to your chambers, my lady,” he said awkwardly, getting to his feet and moving over to his washbasin to clean himself up. There was more of a mess than he was used to.

“But I like your bed, my lord,” she purred.

He felt himself redden, but his back was to her so it did not much matter. “Nonetheless,” he said sternly.

She made the sound a pout would make if pouts made sounds, and he immediately felt the urge to just let her stay as long as she wanted. Thankfully, he managed to stifle that urge and replace it with the urge to make her a generous offer.

_Perhaps if he attempted to be readily available to his wanton little wife she would not be tempted to turn to other men?_

“You may visit again if you wish, my lady, but now you must leave,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her to gauge her reaction.

“Truly?” she said breathlessly, sounding stunned and looking very pleasantly surprised.

“Yes, but warn me ahead of time if you intend to do so,” he stipulated quickly.

He really should not encourage her wanton behaviour by giving her his leave to initiate… intimate contact with him, but he _was_ trying to sire an heir with the girl.

Sansa got out of bed and walked over to him - naked as a newborn - and kissed his cheek.

“Have a good morning, my husband,” she whispered, smiling at him softly before finding her nightgown and taking her leave.

He stood still for a little while, feeling his cheek tingling and staring at the spot where last he had seen her, until he shook his head and scowled at his absurd behaviour.

_Besotted fool._


	14. Winter is Coming

As Sansa’s family did not plan on an extended stay on Storm’s End, it was decided that there would be no welcome feast. Instead a grand feast was planned for the day before they would leave, a fortnight hence. Sansa and Ser Cortnay had wanted to plan two feasts, but Lord Stannis had insisted it was utter madness to host two feasts in such a short span of time. He did not see the point of feasting the Starks at all when they were only coming for a short visit before moving on to Winterfell. Sansa had ended up coming up with the solution of one feast to see them off and both men had been able to agree to the idea.

“I really don’t see what you have against feasts,” Sansa whispered to her husband when she came to his bed that night, “it is only courteous to feast with honoured guests.”

Only three days had passed since Sansa had crept into the lord’s chambers to try her Idea, but she felt as if their relationship had progressed as if weeks had gone by. Stannis was still irritable and abrupt during the day, but he was treating her warmly in the bedchamber again, and seemed pleased that she had been using every opportunity to visit his bed. He had yet to deny any of her requests to see him and had not objected when she wished to stay the night with him after they did their duty. 

She had decided to forgive his previous odd behaviour and his cruel words due to the way he had suggested an experiment of his own - she blushed at the memory of _riding_ him - and the way he had started to stroke her hair again nearly every time they were alone together.

“It is a foolish, wasteful custom that breeds indolence and encourages wanton, drunken behaviour,” Stannis muttered, but there was no true rancour in his tone as he was clearly distracted by what she was doing with her hands. She was unlacing his breeches for him - deliberately clumsily - her hand slipping frequently to pet his hardening manhood through the soft fabric.

“Perhaps,” she said softly, “but feasts are also an opportunity to connect with other lords and ladies and strengthen the ties between different houses.” He was bare to her touch now, and she fondled him in a way that had become familiar to her, causing him to hiss out a drawn out breath.

“I will not discuss this now,” he growled, batting her hand away and divesting her of her plain shift, suckling greedily at the sensitive tips of her breasts as soon as they were revealed.

He had his way, and they did not discuss much of anything after that point.

Sansa woke up alone the following morning. It was not uncommon for Sansa to sleep through Stannis’ departure if he made no particular effort to rouse her, but she was not bothered by it as Stannis tended to wake up at hours she considered to be the middle of the night. Though she was not bothered by the ridiculous hours he kept, she often wished Stannis would sleep in so that she might wake up at her leisure feeling safe and warm with the reassuring weight of his arm around her. 

Presently she was relieved to be alone because she felt terribly nauseated. She wanted to be sick, but nothing would really come up as she retched fruitlessly, head bent over an empty chamber pot in misery. When she had consulted Maester Pylos the previous afternoon shortly after the first bout of nausea had overtaken her, he said this was a normal symptom of pregnancy and that he thought it a very encouraging sign. Sansa thought it was some sort of horrible punishment that surely she did not deserve. She tried to ignore her discomfort in favour of focusing on the fact that her family was expected to arrive later that day, but not even such happy news could distract her.

Finally she managed to expel what little her stomach had to relinquish, shuddering and whimpering pathetically. She _hated_ this. Hopefully Maester Pylos would deliver the tincture he had promised soon and hopefully it _worked._

As it turned out, she felt better on her own in time for the midday meal. In fact, as she hadn’t been able to stomach the idea of breaking her fast, she was quite hungry and managed to eat more food than she would have believed scant hours earlier. She was relieved when she received a small bottle from Maester Pylos regardless, with instructions to add a drop or two into a cup of water and drink it before bed.

“It ought to soothe your upset stomach, my lady,” Maester Pylos said with a solemn nod.

Soon after her short meeting with Maester Pylos a rider came to the keep, heralding the arrival of her family’s party. Sansa’s heart started to beat faster at the knowledge that her family would be at Storm’s End before nightfall. She would be able to talk to her mother! Should she tell her that she suspected she was pregnant? She desperately wanted to. Aside from most likely being thrilled at the news, her mother had successfully brought five children into the world and would undoubtedly have good advice to share. She’d also be able to talk to her father and tell him that she was content with the match he had made for her. Lord Stannis was - despite his irritability and his tight purse - not as frightening a husband as she had worried he would be, and her position as Lady of Storm’s End was everything she had been brought up to expect and more. Her father had been right about the fact that Stannis was an honourable man and she wanted him to know that she was well treated. Sansa was anxious to see her brothers and sister again, too, and looked forward to embracing them all fiercely -- even Arya!

It seemed to Sansa that time slowed to grinding halt the afternoon she waited for her family to arrive. She tried to keep busy, but she was too excited and full of nervous energy to be of much assistance to Aren Florent, and her husband usually glared at her in irritation if she bothered him with anything inconsequential. (According to Jon, she got off easy. He said that if anyone but Sansa bothered Lord Stannis with something he deemed unimportant, he dressed them down sharply.) She therefore ended up helping Lady Penrose with some flower arrangements; mind-numbing work that did little to take Sansa’s mind off her impatience.

At last she was standing next to her husband, wearing a satin-lined cloak and a fine silk gown that was cut to emphasise her womanly curves, her hair elaborately braided and her throat glittering with precious stones, waiting to receive their guests. Jon and the other knights were nearby, as well as several other key members of Lord Stannis’ household. Her household, too, she supposed. It felt odd to think of it that way. As much as she was getting used to Storm’s End and starting to feel comfortable in the castle, she still very much considered it to be her husband’s keep. Did her mother still feel that way about Winterfell? Would Sansa ever feel like Storm’s End was _her_ keep, too? Probably not while Stannis insisted on having her run every purchase she wanted to make by him, she thought with a twinge of annoyance.

It took a lot of effort on Sansa’s part to remain still when her father and Robb rode up on a pair of handsome destriers, but it would not be ladylike to run towards them, waving and shouting. Her delicate embroidered slippers were not made for running, anyway. Bran was riding, too, strapped into his special saddle, and he gave her a cheerful wave. The horses that pulled the largest wheelhouse came to a halt soon after, and her father was already down from his horse to help her mother out of it. Arya and Rickon emerged soon after, and Sansa knew she must be smiling quite brightly as her face was starting to hurt. She wanted to call out to Robb, wave at little Rickon who seemed to grow taller if one took one’s eyes off him for even a minute, and most of all she wanted to throw her arms around her mother’s neck and smell the comforting scent of _home._

Another smaller wheelhouse soon followed, and Sansa saw Jeyne Poole emerge from within it. She could not contain herself at this, and brought her hand up to give her old friend a subtle wave. Stannis noticed and glared at her, so she put her hand right back down. But she kept smiling, and Jeyne happily returned the wave and the smile. Sansa promised herself that she would find her friend first thing the next morning so that they might catch up. Tonight was reserved for family only.

Her father shook hands with Stannis, and they both greeted the other, looking serious and solemn and nodding at each other the way high lords often did. Stannis greeted her mother, too, welcoming her and her family to his keep. Once that was done, Sansa could finally move to embrace her family to her heart’s content. Arya groaned and made a disgusted sound but clung to her tightly nonetheless, and her father cleared his throat rather suspiciously after she let him go, his eyes a little watery. Her brothers all seemed happy to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, though Rickon’s kiss was rather slobbery -- as if he’d learnt how to peck people on the cheek from Shaggydog. She left her mother for last, as she knew she would have trouble letting her mother go, and she suspected she might weep. She was proud of herself when she managed to stop herself after only a few tears, not wanting to make a spectacle of herself, and moved to take her place at her husband’s side as gracefully as she could.

The six direwolves that were currently running in circles around the Stark family, sniffing each other and the family members, looked ecstatic to be reunited. Lady and Ghost were spotlessly clean, their beautiful coats recently brushed and gleaming. The others were all a bit dusty and splattered with mud due to their travels - Nymeria especially - but they were magnificent nonetheless. Their sheer size and numbers were causing some of the household to look rather concerned, however, and Sansa gave her husband a look, moving her head almost imperceptibly to bring his attention to the matter. Stannis understood at once and called for the wolves to be taken to the kennels to be fed, cleaned and allowed to rest before being returned to their masters. Lady and Ghost were exempt, of course.

There was no feast that night, but Sansa had arranged for an intimate dining room to be made ready for her family. She joined them there, Lord Stannis leading her by the arm with a sour look on his face and his jaw clenched; Shireen following in their wake. Sansa felt quite the lady when they swept into the dining room and everyone stood to acknowledge them, and she fussily straightened the skirts of her new lavender silk gown, feeling pleased she had thought to have it made for herself when she ordered Shireen’s gowns to be made from the fabric Stannis had been so upset over. In her opinion it was quite worth a lecture from her husband to look so beautiful for this occasion. Shireen looked very well, too, in her new pale blue gown with a feminine panel of Myrish lace all down the front of the dress. She had instructed the maids to style Shireen’s hair in a way that would not draw attention to her ears, and the end result was really quite flattering.

Sansa spent most of dinner catching up on all sorts of news that had not been thought important enough to be sent via raven. Some of the news was on the other end of the spectrum, however, considered too important, and too sensitive to be put to paper and given over to a raven.

“Queen Margaery is believed to be with child. The Maesters have all but confirmed it. It’s still being kept quiet, however, until they’re quite certain,” Sansa’s mother informed her discreetly shortly after they had finished the last course. They were standing by the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the merrily blazing fire, having stood up to stretch their feet like most of the others.

“How wonderful!” Sansa exclaimed happily, minding the volume of her voice so she wouldn’t draw her husband’s attention. He was deep in conversation with her father and Jon, however, and unlikely to notice her unless she went out of her way to catch his attention. Judging by the look of consternation on all of their faces, Sansa would probably have to touch him - or possibly disrobe - to get him to look up. She smiled to herself at the thought.

“King Robert hopes she carries a son,” her mother said seriously, the corners of her mouth turning downward.

Sansa nodded, her smile fading at her mother’s displeased expression.

“And you, sweetling? Any news?” her mother asked, giving her one of her most piercing looks.

Sansa felt herself blush and she looked down at her hands, clasping them nervously in front of her. “Not yet,” Sansa said shyly, not wanting to plant any false hope.

“But you are doing your duty?” her mother asked gently, concern in her gaze.

Sansa felt herself blush even more hotly as she nodded quickly. “Of course,” Sansa whispered embarrassedly.

“Is it still causing you pain?” her mother asked solicitously after glancing around to ascertain that no one was listening to their conversation.

“No, not at all,” Sansa was still staring at her hands, completely unable to meet her mother’s eyes as they spoke of such private things, “Lord Stannis is very careful with me.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, sweetling. You must encourage him to be a dutiful husband. You will not conceive his heir without his help,” her mother said decisively and squeezed Sansa’s shoulder.

Sansa almost said that Stannis was _very_ dutiful, but held her tongue. That was not something she wanted to discuss at the present moment. Instead she simply nodded, still blushing crimson.

The subject changed after that, and Sansa felt more in command of herself after a little while of discussing the less intimate details of being the Lady of Storm’s End.

Sansa took the opportunity to speak to her father when he broke away from his conversation with Stannis and Jon to ask a nearby servant to refill his cup of wine.

“Father, I trust your chambers and the meal were to your liking,” Sansa began, smiling hopefully at him.

“Yes,” her father said, his eyes softening to a silvery grey, “I am very well pleased.”

“Storm’s End is such a lovely keep,” Sansa sighed happily, “I had not quite understood it was as grand as this.”

Ned placed one of his large warm hands on her shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. “I am glad to hear it,” he said with a nod, “you looked quite well at Lord Stannis’ side when you greeted us.”

There was a question hidden in the careful compliment, and Sansa understood that her father wished for her to tell him whether she felt as well as she looked.

“I _am_ well,” she reassured him, “Lord Stannis is stern, but I am not displeased with him.” Sansa was certain that if things continued to go well when she and Stannis were alone together, and if she gave him sons, everything would turn out well for their marriage. She wasn’t quite sure she dared to hope for Stannis’ love, but his regard and his esteem, surely?

Her father swallowed and nodded again. A noticeable amount of tension seemed to drain from his posture and he attempted a smile, though it was no more than a quick quirk of the corners of his mouth.

“Lord Stannis is a very fortunate man,” her father said, reaching to tuck a lock of hair behind one of her ears.

Sansa felt as if a warm glow had been lit within her, and she smiled at her father, as brightly as she could. He clasped her shoulder again before they parted ways, and Sansa was still glowing when she rejoined her mother.

The evening was so pleasant that Sansa hardly noticed the hours passing by, but soon it became apparent that not everyone had sufficient energy to stay awake.

“I want Shaggydog!” Rickon demanded, sleepy and irritated.

Sansa shot Stannis a questioning look, wondering if he would take care of it, or if she should. The look she got in return told her that her husband expected her to handle the matter.

“He needs to go to bed,” Catelyn said quietly, “it’s been a long day.”

“I’ll see to him," Sansa said with a smile.

Feeling Stannis’ gaze on her, Sansa went over to her youngest brother and got down on her haunches to look him in the eye. “Of course you want Shaggydog,” she said in her most soothing tone of voice, “shall we go to the kennels to find him? I’m sure the kennelmaster will have cleaned him up by now, so he should be fit to enter the castle.”

Rickon brightened immediately, his sullen look disappearing and a small smile taking its place. “Yes, please,” he said quietly. Sansa risked a glance at Stannis, wondering if he approved of her plan to allow Shaggydog into the castle, and was pleased to note that he did not look like he disapproved. In fact, he did not look as if he had really been listening to what she had said to her brother at all. Instead he had an odd look of longing in his eyes, and she noticed him swallow and take a deeper breath than usual before she turned her attention back to her brother.

Sansa stood up and offered Rickon her hand to hold. He took it a little hesitantly, but held on tightly for the duration of the walk to the kennels. He only let go once Shaggydog was within reach.

Back at the castle Sansa made sure that Rickon would be taken to his bedchamber and that Shaggydog would be allowed to accompany him. She doubted any servant would be brave enough to try to separate the boy from his wolf, but she didn’t want to risk anyone attempting it.

Stannis found her before she made her way back to the rest of her family. She was surprised to see him and wondered why he wasn’t still talking to her father and Jon. 

“My lord?”

“I want a word,” Stannis explained brusquely.

“Of course, shall we go somewhere to talk?” Sansa asked, looking around the empty corridor they were currently standing in.

“No, this shan’t take long,” Stannis said with an impatient wave of his hand.

Sansa arranged her face into an attentive expression and looked expectantly at her husband. Did this have something to do with the way he had looked at her when she had been talking to Rickon? 

Stannis cleared his throat and reddened slightly, his rare signs of discomfort indicating that he wanted to discuss something _delicate_. Her heart started to beat a little faster, but remained outwardly calm.

“My lady, I wanted to ask you if you would prefer it if I - if we…” Stannis trailed off and cleared his throat again, scowling at the floor. Sansa knew better than to interrupt or try to guess the end of the sentence. She waited patiently for him to finish, watching as his jaw worked furiously.

“Would you prefer to see less of me during your family’s visit? In the evenings?” he suddenly asked, a stubborn combative look on his face.

Sansa blinked up at him in surprise, her lips parting but no sound coming out. Why on earth would he ask her that?

“Not at all, my lord,” she hurried to say as soon as she could gather her wits, “I enjoy your company.” It was her turn to redden, but she met Stannis’ eyes despite her rosy blush to make sure he understood that she meant what she said. She enjoyed his company the most when he was in bed with her, for at other times he had rather a tedious tendency to be irritable or to lecture her about _lemons._

Stannis’ stubborn expression faded away, leaving only a faint frown behind. He swallowed noticeably, and nodded once. “Would you - er - _enjoy_ my company tonight?” he then asked, his jaw clenching up tightly as he awaited her response.

“Of course, my lord. I would welcome it,” Sansa immediately answered.

He nodded and seemed at a loss for a moment, but Sansa reached for his elbow, indicating that he should hold out his arm to escort her back to her family, and then it was as if his uncertainty had never been there at all.

***

Ned Stark had wasted no time in taking Stannis aside and telling him that Queen Margaery was with child, and that Robert was receiving more and more cries for help from the Wall with each week that went by. By order of the king, Stannis was to go with the Starks when they left for Winterfell and make haste. His role would be to bring reinforcements to the Wall and act as Robert’s chief commander once he got there. Ned handed him an official letter from Robert that contained detailed orders and gave Stannis the authority to call more men to arms.

He had not thought he would have to go quite so soon, and a part of him had been hoping that the situation in the north would resolve itself without him. But he had known that it was a fool’s hope.

“Catelyn and I planned to remain at Storm’s End for a fortnight before riding north,” Ned had said seriously, “staying for longer would be ill advised.”

“If time is of the essence it would be sensible to sail north instead of taking the Kingsroad,” Stannis had pointed out. Ned had readily agreed.

It would take time to get ships ready to sail, so Stannis had spent the time before dinner was to be served drafting letters to several captains of the royal fleet, and examining Robert’s letter carefully.

He had not been able to discuss the war effort in depth with Ned and Jon over dinner, but they had been able to touch on the subject lightly. They had arranged to meet with each other and some of Stannis’ other knights the following day in order to plan their departure from Storm’s End. Ned had asked to be allowed to include Robb as well, and though Stannis had been reluctant, he had acceded to it. It was only right for the future Lord of Winterfell to be made aware of the war that would be fought relatively close to his castle gates. It was likely that Winterfell would play a role when it came to hosting soldiers marching to the Wall, after all.

Presently he was in his chambers, alone with his thoughts. He was already wearing the soft breeches he liked to sleep in and his onyx robe, but he did not feel quite ready to see Sansa yet.

The fact that Robert had managed to get a baby in Margaery Tyrell’s belly irritated him. He knew his brother, and he knew that Robert would consider himself to have won some sort of race. It did not matter that Stannis had never entered into a contest, or that Robert had married Queen Margaery months before Stannis had married Sansa. All that would matter to Robert was that he had once again bested Stannis.

He became vaguely aware of a familiar dull ache in the muscles of his jaw and made an effort to stop grinding his teeth. With a sigh he started to pace around the spacious chamber as if he were a caged beast.

Seeing how kind and gentle Sansa had been with her youngest brother had made him long to see her behave in such a manner with a child of their making. 

A son. 

It made his heart cold to think that he might never see Sansa speak softly to his heir, take the little one by the hand and lead him through the halls of the great keep of his forefathers.

If she was not with child now… if he went to the Wall and never returned…

Stannis took a deep shuddering breath and clenched his fists. It would not do to become maudlin and useless. There was still a chance Sansa would be able to conceive a child before he was obliged to leave her. He would simply have to take every opportunity to bed her and hope for the best. He did not know what had possessed him to ask if she wanted him to visit her less often now that her family was here, knowing that the next fortnight might be his last fortnight with her. Even if he survived the war, it would be the last fortnight he would have with her for a very long time. Thankfully, Sansa had not taken the reluctantly offered chance to see less of him in her bedchamber. He did not quite know what he would have done if she had. He wanted to think that he would have respected her wishes, but he had the sinking feeling that he would have found his way to her bed regardless.

He grimaced at the idea of stealing into her chamber late at night, after she was asleep, waking her and demanding his rights as her husband.

Stannis shook his head to clear the thought away, feeling faintly sick.

It was late. He ought to go to Sansa before she fell asleep waiting for him.

“My lord,” Sansa said sweetly when he entered her chamber, “won’t you join me?” she enticed, a smile in her voice. She was sitting in bed, propped up by several pillows at the headboard and looking even more enticing than she sounded. Her hair was flowing freely over the pillows around her, and she appeared to be quite naked, the covers barely pulled up high enough to conceal her teats. It was immodest and wanton but he found that tonight he _did not care._

Stannis did not wait for her to ask him a second time. He disrobed as quickly as he could without fumbling about like a fool and climbed into bed with her, already becoming hard with arousal.

He knew he should tell her that he would be leaving for war. He knew he should explain that it was their duty to lie together at every opportunity until he left to increase the odds of getting her with child. But Sansa did not seem to need such excuses to welcome him with open arms, and he found himself utterly unable to speak of his looming departure. He was convinced it would only cast a shadow on her pleasant mood, and he selfishly wished for her to continue to behave as if he weren’t going at all.

He kissed her fervently, enjoying the way she responded to him. Everything from the way she parted her lips and used her tongue to stroke his, to the little hums of pleasure she made was perfect, and he felt his control slipping away as soon as he was fully under the covers, his naked skin pressed up against hers. He needed to be inside of her, and he needed it _now._ He hand did not shake as it found its way between her thighs, and Sansa did not hesitate before parting them for him. She was hot and damp, but he did not think she was quite ready, so he pressed the pad of his thumb against her in a certain circular motion that he had recently discovered made her writhe about, produce little squealing noises, and very quickly become wet enough to accept him.

Sinking into her warmth was a sensation like no other, and though he had bedded her enough times to have lost count, he did not seem to be growing used to it. Lying with her seemed new each time he did it, and the knowledge that he would soon be deprived of the privilege made him even more conscious of every aspect of having her. The way she smelled, the way her skin felt against his, the way she sounded and the way all of this information from his senses seemed to fade into the background compared with the intense _relief_ of it. Most of the time he derived no pleasure from simply being aroused. A hard cock equaled a dull ache -- a heavy pressure that demanded attention. It was the relief of being provided with the attention his cock wanted that brought him peace.

He heard himself groan as a powerful, _deeply satisfying_ wave of pleasure moved through him just as he started to move within her. Sansa moaned and clutched at his shoulders, but he did not concern himself with the uncomfortable way her nails dug into his flesh. All his attention was focused on the connection between them and the way each thrust of his hips sent a fresh wave of pleasure rolling down his spine. He noticed when Sansa wrapped her long legs around him to urge him to stay within her for longer at a time, but he fought the pressure of her legs and kept going at his increasingly urgent pace. He needed this -- needed _her._

Sansa rarely used his given name when she spoke to him, usually choosing to refer to him as her husband or her lord, but when he took her she sometimes ended up gasping and moaning for him, using his given name as if she couldn’t stop if she wanted to. It fell from her lips now - sounding decadent and almost sinful on her tongue - and it made him feel powerful and desired. 

“Stannis, Stannis, _Stannis!_ ”

Perhaps it was foolish to feel that way, but in the heat of the moment he could not be suspicious and guarded.

When he felt his sac tightening up he knew he would not last much longer, but he tried to hold on for as long as he could. It was strange to allow himself to do so - to teeter on the edge of his release instead of giving into it as quickly as he could - but it was _gloriously pleasurable._

His release hit him like a sharp blow to the back of the head, making him dizzy and incoherent as his hips thrust uncontrollably. He was doing something infinitely more embarrassing than grunting, but he could not make himself stop.

“Sansa, _fuck,_ Sansa!”

The words spilled out as he spent his seed inside her, the rush of his climax making him unconcerned with the indignity of it. At the back of his mind he knew he would regret his outburst as soon as he was down from his high, but all he felt now was perfect completion.

Sansa was lying still beneath him - a good sign as she usually squirmed about when he left her unsatisfied - and he knew he should move off her to allow her the freedom to breathe more easily, but she was soft and warm, and he liked lying on top of her, so he left it longer than she should have. Sansa had to make a discomfited noise to prompt him to unstick his skin from hers and roll to the side,

Sansa did not seem to care that they were sweaty and sticky as she immediately pressed herself against his flank, sticking their skin right back together. He might have told her off for it if, but he was too relaxed and sated to bother.

“My lord?” Sansa asked in a slightly hoarse voice after they had been still and silent for a while.

“Mm?”

“Now that Jeyne is _here_ \- Jeyne Poole, I mean - might she stay on? Please?” she asked, blurting the words out in a rush, her tone pleading.

Stannis felt the muscles of his face shifting into the familiar pattern of a scowl, and he made an irritated sound which prompted Sansa to press herself even closer to him. Was she attempting to distract him with her feminine wiles?

“What do you need this Jeyne Poole for?” he asked harshly, annoyed that his pleasant mood was being disrupted due to this insipid blather.

“She’s my friend,” Sansa said softly, bringing a hand up to draw random patterns on his chest with her forefinger.

He managed to stop himself before asking what she needed _friends_ for. He did understand the benefits of friendship. He just could not see how Sansa could possibly have anything that compared with what he had with Davos or Jon with this _Jeyne Poole._

His concern over whether Sansa might share intimate details about him with her friend was still present, but Stannis knew that once he went to war there would be no such details for Sansa to share. Perhaps it would not hurt to allow the girl to stay…

“I will consider the matter,” he said at length, not wanting to acquiesce to Sansa’s request too readily.

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, rising up to press a _very_ enthusiastic kiss to his lips. Her tongue was playful, teasing him and licking at his lips until he was responding aggressively; thrusting his tongue into her mouth and burying his hand in the hair at the nape of her neck.

She moaned and started to squirm in a familiar way. _Was she ready to be taken again? So soon?_ Stannis felt dismayed at the thought as he knew he would not be ready for some time. Perhaps if he were approaching his eighteenth nameday instead of his thirty-eighth... 

“There’s no point,” he said sharply when she reached for his cock, feeling his face heat up with some mixture of anger and shame.

“Has it gone to sleep?” Sansa asked playfully, seemingly not disappointed at all. She smiled at him, and there was a delighted gleam in her eyes. Not for the first time she reminded him of a friendly kitten.

He grunted instead of dignifying her silly banter with a proper response.

“Shall I kiss it good night, then, my lord?” she said, biting her lower lip and smiling.

His breathing sped up. _Was she offering to… ? Again so soon?_ Instead of answering her he simply stared, wondering if she would disappear as a mirage would if he blinked.

When she did not move to do anything he understood that she was waiting for his permission. He felt his face heat up and redden as he gave her a small nod. He could not say no.

Sansa smiled, already crawling down over his tense form, her lips nearing his groin slowly. His cock was still quite soft when they found it, but it twitched due to her hot kiss, making him groan. She shot him a nervous, excited look and he stared back, feeling helpless and useless and hoping for more kisses.

She did not disappoint.

He had not realised he could become hard again so soon at his age, but Sansa’s soft lips, her wet tongue and hot mouth had him standing at attention in less than a minute.

He made an embarrassing choked sound when she started to suck on the head of his cock the way she had done only once before; his eyes rolling into the back of his head due to the ridiculous pleasure of it. With an enormous amount of effort he managed to prevent himself from bucking up the way he had last time, but he allowed himself to place a hand at the back of her head, telling himself that it was only to guide her very gently.

The next few minutes were a blur. Sansa used her hands and her mouth to bring him more pleasure than he had believed possible, and he was vaguely aware of moaning her name and pleading with her to continue. The hand that was tangled in Sansa’s hair eventually developed a will of its own, however, and he started to encourage her - perhaps a little too firmly - to go faster. 

It made her stop and pull away.

“What?” he asked in a panic, worried she would not bring her mouth back.

“I need you,” she whimpered prettily, giving him a heated look. She was not sitting quite still on her heels, and even without her spelling it out for him he hoped he would have understood what her flushed skin and heavy-lidded eyes were telling him.

He did not hesitate. Before he knew how he had even done it, he was buried to the hilt and somehow her calves were resting against his chest and shoulders, and he was so in so _deep_ and she was moaning so _loudly_ and seven _hells…_

“Yes! Please! More, more, more!” Sansa was urging him on, her voice somehow charging him with energy and forcing his hips to move even more demandingly than they had been. Soon she stopped using actual words in favour of gasping out a series of ‘ah’s that became louder and more high pitched the faster and harder he drove himself into her. If he had been in his right mind he might have worried about hurting her with the force he was exerting, but Sansa looked and sounded like she was enjoying his treatment of her thoroughly, so he simply let his rational mind slip away, focusing instead on the way her inner muscles were clamping down on him, trying to milk him for all he was worth.

Astoundingly he had yet to yield his seed, however, and he wondered if he was lasting this long because it had been such a short time since his last release.

They were both hoarse, shaky and very sweaty by the time Stannis climaxed, and he had to roll off relatively quickly because Sansa clearly wanted to put her legs down. She went limp beside him, breathing heavily but not moving a single muscle otherwise.

Several silent moments went by before either one of them spoke.

“Might we do that again sometime, my lord?” Sansa eventually asked, sounding very satisfied and a little sleepy.

Stannis felt that horrible ice cold feeling wash over him, reminding him that he would be leaving his wife very soon. Perhaps he would never have a chance to repeat this performance? The thought was a bitter one, and he couldn’t help but scowl as it surfaced.

“Perhaps,” he rasped, not feeling up to making a promise he might not be able to keep, but unable to give her a flat no, either. He wanted to do this again. He probably shouldn’t want to, as it had been absurdly wanton, but he couldn’t help but like how long he had been able to last that second time. It had made him feel young, powerful, and _impressive_.

He was suddenly overtaken by a wild idea involving himself, Sansa, and a locked door. Surely Ser Courtney and the steward would be able to run things if the lord and the lady of the keep decided to stay locked in a bedchamber until said lord was obliged to go to war?

He rubbed at his eyes in irritation, cursing his folly and reminding himself that he was not _Renly._ He would not simply do whatever he wanted with no concern for the consequences.

In any case, Lord and Lady Stark would hardly be best pleased if he locked himself in a tower with Sansa for the duration of their visit. It would make the journey north in their company very awkward, to say the least.

No, he’d have to make do with visiting Sansa late in the evenings. Or perhaps she would continue to wish to visit him?

“Will you stay, my lord?” Sansa asked with a yawn, seemingly having regained her mobility as she was shifting around and turning to lie on her side.

“Yes,” he said decisively, already determined to convince Sansa to let him take her again come morning. He would not waste a single opportunity to create his heir. His old worries about putting Sansa off him by inflicting too much of his company on her no longer applied.

If she felt ill used she would soon be rid of him.

When Sansa pressed herself against him, sighing contentedly, a hard lump formed in Stannis’ throat and refused to go away no matter how many times he attempted to swallow it. Eventually he gave into the impulse to place both of his arms around Sansa and hold her as tightly as he dared, hoping she would not question his actions as he was not entirely certain the lump would allow him to speak. Thankfully Sansa seemed to decide that this was entirely appropriate, and she simply buried her face in the crook of his neck with a soft humming noise.

He did not know how long he held her, but it must have been long enough for the lump to disappear, because he could not imagine that he would have been able to fall asleep otherwise.


	15. Truth Revealed

Stannis had never known his days to go by as quickly as they did now that he wanted time to come to a standstill.

There was much to be done, and he spent his days writing letters to be sent via riders or ravens, plotting the journey north and picking Ned Stark’s brain for every scrap of intelligence the man possessed regarding the wildling clans and the mysterious Others that Ned insisted were a serious concern.

“Dragonglass?” Stannis barked, furrowing his brow, “why would a jagged black rock harm the creatures when castle-forged steel will not?”

“I do not know, but I believe it to be true,” Ned said seriously, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth down.

Stannis regarded the solemn northman for a moment, contemplating his words. Ned Stark was not likely to be concerned for no reason. If dragonglass was the only weapon he knew of that would harm the so-called white walkers, it would be foolish not to take a supply to the Wall.

“I will ask Ser Davos to send a generous supply from Dragonstone,” Stannis said, his lip curling, “there is no shortage of dragonglass on the island.”

Ned nodded grimly. “I fear we will need every last piece he is able to send.”

Stannis wished that had been the end of that particular conversation.

“Lord Stannis,” Ned said in a tone of voice that immediately alerted Stannis to the fact that Ned was about to say something that did not relate to the coming war, “my daughter tells me she is well and that she is pleased with her situation.” 

There was an awkward pause. Stannis wondered if Ned wished for him to comment on what Sansa had said, but decided not to speak. It was good to know that Sansa had not spoken ill of her treatment to her father, and that she had not attempted to repeat some of her past behaviour. He would not tolerate Sansa sending her father to argue with him on her behalf again.

“I trust you are pleased with her as well?” Ned said leadingly once he understood that Stannis was not about to break the silence.

Stannis cleared his throat. “She is everything a lady of her birth should be,” he said stiffly. Everything she should be and several other things that Stannis hoped he would never have to discuss with the girl’s _father._

Ned stared at him with furrowed brows and a frown. Apparently Stannis was required to elaborate.

He cleared his throat again and felt decidedly uncomfortable. He could not seem to stop thinking about the indecent little nightgowns Sansa tended to wear, the way she sounded when he bedded her and the way she had looked a few short days ago with his cock in her mouth. He was quite certain the heat he felt above the neck meant he was becoming unfortunately red-faced. “I am... well pleased.”

Ned’s face smoothed out and he nodded. “It gladdens me to hear it.”

To Stannis’ relief they did not discuss Sansa again after that.

Stannis was usually exhausted by the time he retired at the end of each day, but he stubbornly visited his wife every night. On the third day of the Stark family’s visit, he found her very subdued; curled up into a ball on her bed and half hidden by the bulk of her direwolf. Lady looked forlorn and whined pathetically in his direction when she spotted him.

Stannis frowned disapprovingly at the pair of ladies. _How often had he asked Sansa not to allow Lady on the bed?_

“Robb told me that a war is being fought at the Wall as we speak,” Sansa said without being prompted, distracting him from his annoyance. Had Robb told her that Stannis would be leaving to lead King Robert’s men against the wildlings? He had explicitly stated that _he_ would be the one to tell his wife. Had Robb not listened? His heart started to beat more quickly at the idea of her finding out before he meant for her to know.

“Will they be safe in Winterfell?” Sansa asked fretfully, “Robb said not to worry, but I can’t help it!”

Stannis heaved a subtle sigh of relief. She obviously didn’t know.

“Winterfell is an old, powerful castle. They will be perfectly safe, my lady.”

“What about Arya, Bran and Rickon?” Sansa sounded no calmer for having heard his assurances, “they’re so young!”

 _So are you,_ Stannis thought darkly. Out loud he said, “I’m sure your lord father and lady mother will make certain they are appropriately protected.”

Sansa was quiet then, but Lady continued to emit low whines that were starting to get on his nerves.

“Off the bed,” he commanded sharply, addressing the wolf, “go find Ghost,” he added, wanting to be rid of the large beast. It always unsettled him a little when she was in the room as he bedded Sansa. He could never quite rid himself of the idea that Lady might maul him if she ever believe him to be hurting his wife. It would be a most undignified way to go.

Lady didn’t move.

“Do as Lord Stannis says,” Sansa said softly, hugging the wolf briefly. This was all Lady had needed to hear, apparently, and she took off for the door with a surprising amount of grace for a creature so large. Stannis opened the main door of Sansa’s chambers for her and glared at her when she _intentionally_ hit him with her tail on the way out.

“The bed is covered in fur,” Stannis said irritably, “we should move to my chambers for the night.”

Once they were lying in his fur-free bed - Stannis’ irritation gone along with their clothes - Sansa apparently decided to take a moment to continue their conversation.

“I know I already asked you to let Jeyne stay…” she began hesitantly, touching him to indicate that he should stop fondling her teats and listen. He frowned at her, feeling tired and just wanting to lose himself in the pleasure of bedding his wife.

Sansa seemed to sense his impatience and hurried to continue. “But I wondered if perhaps my younger siblings might stay on, too? Just until the war ends.” She started stroking his chest as she spoke, moving her hands lower and lower with each word.

“You’ll have to discuss it with Lord and Lady Stark,” he said quickly, wanting to put an end to the conversation. Sansa’s hands were _almost…_

“But if they agree, would it be all right?” Sansa asked, her hands scant inches from his cock and no longer moving.

He grabbed one of her hands and pulled it down the rest of the way, growling at her. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Sansa blushed and nodded, stroking him pleasurably right where he had placed her hand.

“Of course, my lord.”

***

Sansa’s nausea had hardly bothered her ever since she started to drink Maester Pylos’ tincture every night. She was very thankful for it as Stannis had been more enthusiastic about doing his duty than ever since her family had arrived. He took her every night and almost every morning, too, so she would not have been able to hide any illness.

During the day he was so busy that he barely acknowledged her, however. She might have been upset over it if she hadn’t been quite busy herself. While her husband saw to his duties she tried to spend as much time as she could with her family and Jeyne.

Sansa had been so excited to spend the morning after her family’s arrival with Jeyne that she had almost forgotten to greet Septa Mordane properly. Thankfully her septa had crossed her path before Sansa had found Jeyne, and the sight of her had reminded Sansa of her manners.

Once the initial courtesies had been performed, Septa Mordane had gathered Sansa’s hands in her own and looked at her with such _pride_ that Sansa had felt quite moved.

“My lady,” her septa had said, sounding just as proud as she looked, “seeing you greet Lord and Lady Stark with your husband yesterday, looking like such a fine, proper young lady, brought me great joy. Such very great joy.”

Sansa had smiled and thanked her septa, feeling accomplished and appreciated in a way she had not felt in a long time. She had missed Septa Mordane’s compliments.

“You should most certainly be proud of yourself,” her septa had continued, “and I should like you to know how proud I am of you, too, my lady.”

If Sansa had not been so very eager to spend time with Jeyne she probably would have lingered in her septa’s company, but a conversation with Jeyne was something Sansa had _craved_ and Septa Mordane had been on her way to find Arya in any case.

The short conversation was still enough to cause Sansa to practically float through the rest of her day, feeling bolstered and comforted by her septa’s kind words.

Ever since Robb told her about the war that was apparently being fought in the north, Sansa had not been floating at all, however. _Why hadn’t her husband told her of the war?_ Did he not realise how a war in the north would concern her? Her entire family was due to ride north and still he said nothing? She could not understand it. She could understand why her father had failed to tell her as he had surely assumed that Stannis would do so, but she could not help feeling sore at them both.

Sansa had been desperately trying to convince her family to stay in the south with her after she had found out. Her mother was half convinced already, but her father, Robb and Arya were all eager to go north. Her father was concerned that there had been no Stark in Winterfell for far too long, and he considered it his duty to provide aid to those who would no doubt be in need of it due to the war. Robb was anxious to prove his mettle, and Arya was just being _stupid._ Bran and Rickon would probably not be difficult to persuade one way or the other, and Sansa hoped she would at least be able to keep her younger brothers safe, even if none of the others listened to her.

She wondered if Stannis had listened to her requests to allow her younger siblings - and Jeyne - to remain in the castle with them. He had promised to consider to allow Jeyne to stay, and he had said they would discuss the matter of her brothers and sister later... Sansa smiled to herself as she remembered how impatient he had been to have her touch him, and she decided that the next time they discussed who would be staying in the stormlands she would make sure they had their clothes on.

Sansa hoped he would let Jeyne stay. Having her friend at Storm’s End made everything that had been difficult and upsetting before seem easy and amusing. The way the knights looked at her was something to giggle about with Jeyne, and she no longer tried to hide in the shadows if she needed to go to the training yard. Stannis’ rigid rules were easier to follow when Jeyne was there to be sympathetic and encouraging, and even when Stannis glared at her or Aren Florent argued with her orders it was hard to become disheartened with her situation when Jeyne was constantly exclaiming over how wonderful Storm’s End was, and how fortunate Sansa was to have made such a match. 

Jeyne's presence was also helpful in other quite practical ways.

“I wouldn’t approve those recipes,” Jeyne said quietly one morning after having followed Sansa to the kitchens.

Sansa looked up from the proposed meal plan for the next week in surprise. “Why not?”

“The spices they use are costly,” Jeyne explained, pointing at the ingredient lists, “it is not wise to serve three meals that use saffron in one week. Especially not with so many guests in the keep.” The tone Jeyne used was gentle, but something about it reminded Sansa of Jeyne’s father. Vayon Poole, the steward of Winterfell, often spoke to her mother and father of matters that pertained to the running castle, and he always seemed to use a very particular tone of voice when he did. Sansa thought she could hear the same firm, but polite undercurrent in Jeyne’s voice.

“Oh,” Sansa said, furrowing her brow and biting her lip in dismay, “what should I do, then?”

“Just ask the cook to substitute two of the recipes with something simpler,” Jeyne said with an encouraging smile.

Sansa nodded, feeling relieved that Jeyne had pointed this out to her. Stannis was so concerned with running the keep without incurring unnecessary costs, so Jeyne’s suggestion would surely be to his liking.

After speaking to the cook, Sansa managed to sneak some freshly baked lemon cakes into a linen napkin, and the two girls went to Sansa’s solar to enjoy the treats.

“Does Lord Stannis scowl the way he always does when you’re alone together?” Jeyne asked once they had made themselves comfortable, her tone making it quite clear that she was hoping to gossip about things that went on in the bedchamber between husband and wife. Sansa had not been keen to discuss her wedding night with Jeyne when they had been in King’s Landing together, but that had been because it had been painful -- even if Stannis had been very kind to her after. Now Sansa found that she very much wanted to tell Jeyne _everything._

Something made her hesitate, however.

Sansa knew no one would overhear their conversation as they were sequestered in her solar with not a single soul within hearing range, but telling Jeyne some of the things that went on between her and Stannis seemed… a breach of trust. Stannis did not show anyone the side of himself that he routinely showed her, and she felt as if the knowledge of what he could be like was _precious._ Gossiping about it with Jeyne would be very different than seeking advice from Jon.

“Lord Stannis is very attentive,” Sansa said, determined not to give away too many details, “and he certainly _does not_ scowl as much!” She could not resist hinting that Stannis enjoyed himself with her, feeling a little wicked.

Jeyne giggled and hid her face in her hands for a moment. “Is it very strange?” she asked once she had calmed down. Sansa knew Jeyne was asking if it was strange to lie with a man and she felt a little important and smug to have this knowledge -- knowledge that no maiden was privy to. She knew it was improper of her to feel that way, however, so she pushed those feelings aside and reminded herself of how she had felt when she had been in Jeyne’s place.

“It was very strange at first,” Sansa said slowly, hoping that even if Stannis somehow found out about this conversation, he would not mind Sansa telling Jeyne that much.

“Does that mean you no longer find it strange?” Jeyne asked, tilting her head to the side curiously.

“No…” Sansa sighed, unable to suppress a shy smile, “it’s quite - um - nice.”

Jeyne tried to get Sansa to go into more detail, but Sansa refused. Instead they ended up discussing which knight of Storm’s End Jeyne would marry if she were allowed to choose, and fell about giggling madly when Jeyne insisted Ser Jon would be her first choice.

Sansa’s conversation with Jeyne inspired her to seek her mother out later that day. Jon’s advice to be patient and try to make new friends in Storm’s End had been good, but Sansa had not dared to ask him for any more help regarding Stannis as he had seemed so uncomfortable with the subject matter the last time Sansa had brought it up.

Her mother was happy to speak with her in private, and Sansa hurried to start her chosen topic of conversation before her mother began to ask probing questions about her moon blood.

“Mother, how might I encourage Stannis to spend more time with me outside the bedchamber?” Sansa asked bluntly, not feeling up to dancing around the subject matter.

“Lords of great keeps are often busy,” her mother said, “but even busy lords must eat.”

“I often take my meals with him, but Stannis does not respond very well to my conversation. He seems to prefer eating in silence most of the time.” Sansa looked down at her hands, feeling forlorn

“Keep trying and give him time,” her mother advised, a peculiar sad expression appearing on her face. Before Sansa could comment on it and find out the cause her mother seemed to shake her sudden melancholy off.

“Now tell me, did you do your duty last night and did you angle your hips like I instructed?”

Sansa suppressed a sigh and prepared for yet another conversation about how best to conceive a child.

***

Sansa could hardly believe that the day of the farewell feast was upon her. The days had simply flown as if they could not wait to pass her by, and though Sansa felt satisfied that she had used the time well, it made her heart ache to know that she would have to say goodbye to her family once again. She could tell that Lady was sad, too, as the direwolf had been enjoying many spirited outings with Grey Wind, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog and Ghost over the past fortnight, often returning from the woods covered in leaves and matted with mud and dirt. Unlike the others she always submitted quite readily to being bathed by the kennelmaster and brushed and pampered by Sansa, while he usually had to struggle to round the others up. Shaggydog and Nymeria were especially disinclined to bathe.

She smiled to herself as she recalled an incident two days ago, when the kennelmaster had stormed into the keep - soaking wet from head to toe - and demanded that Rickon come to the kennels at once to control ‘that mad beast’. It was well known that Shaggydog did not really heed anyone except his boy master.

Her smile was still in place as she approached the heavy wooden door she had been walking towards, but her heart started to beat a little faster as she knocked. Stannis had summoned her to his solar, and she felt certain that he was finally about to let her know whether he would permit Jeyne Poole and her younger brothers and sister to stay in Storm’s End.

“Enter.”

Sansa opened the door and walked through it, taking the seat her husband waved her towards. “You asked to see me, my lord?” she said once she had nervously smoothed out the fabric of her skirt.

“Yes,” he said, his voice clipped, “we have much to discuss.”

Sansa wondered why he hadn’t said anything about it when they had woken up together, but she supposed he had been… distracted.

“I’m listening,” she said, sitting up as straight as she could and trying to look as attentive as possible.

Stannis was silent for an unusually long while, staring at her and clenching his jaw. A glance at his hands revealed that they were clasped in front of him, resting on the smooth surface of the sturdy desk he was sitting behind, his knuckles turning white.

A pang of worry shot through her. Was he going to deny her requests?

If so, it wasn’t _fair._ She had been trying so hard to please him ever since her family had arrived, and she had thought it might be working as he had been so eager for her company late in the evenings and early in the mornings…

“I - er,” he started, but stopped to clear his throat, “I will be sailing north with your family tomorrow,” he finished, giving her an unreadable look. The muscles of his jaw were moving noticeably under his skin.

Sansa blinked at him. _He was leaving?_

“What?” she said, her voice coming out as a soft whisper.

Sansa would not have believed it possible, but Stannis somehow managed to straighten in his chair and square his shoulders even more than they had already been squared. “King Robert has commanded me to go to the Wall and lead his men against the wildlings.”

“You can’t leave!” she exclaimed without stopping to think. What if she was pregnant as she and Maester Pylos suspected? If he left she would have to carry the baby to term not knowing if its father would ever return to look upon it.

Stannis looked pale, angry and terribly grim. “I assure you, I can,” he said in his harshest, coldest voice.

Sansa realised that she had spoken out of turn and she bowed her head. “I’m sorry, my lord, I was startled.”

_Why was he only telling her this now?_

“I expect you to work with Ser Cortnay and Aren Florent in my absence,” Stannis said, acting as if it were perfectly acceptable to inform her that he was leaving for war with practically no warning at all, “and do attempt to manage Storm’s End without emptying the coffers in a fortnight.”

Sansa felt her lips curl into a pout; she did not think she had been careless enough with Stannis’ gold to deserve such a comment. But she shook the hurtful words off quickly as she had more important concerns. Stannis was going to _war._ He might never return.

It was not lost on Sansa that she was being placed in a similar situation as her mother when she had been carrying Robb. The dread and uncertainty that her mother must surely have felt at the time were now Sansa’s to contend with, and Sansa felt herself slump slightly due to the weight of the burden.

“I will do my best, my lord,” Sansa whispered, now starting to feel numb with shock.

“I spoke with Lord and Lady Stark, and they have agreed that it would perhaps be wise to leave your younger sister and brothers here in Storm’s End with you,” Stannis said, his knuckles still white.

Sansa nodded and wondered if Stannis could hear the strange, high-pitched buzzing sound that was filling her ears.

“I have also decided to allow Jeyne Poole to stay on as your companion,” Stannis said, clearing his throat again.

His words would have _thrilled_ her if she hadn’t been struggling with the sudden urge to be sick. Her nausea had not been this strong since before she had started to drink Maester Pylos’ tincture, and she felt as if her mouth were filling with her own saliva. She was trying to swallow but it was hard, and her heartbeat was so _loud..._

“Thank you, my lord,” she choked out, gripping the arms of her chair tightly. Her palms felt slick with sweat.

“I will expect regular letters, of course, but you may ask Ser Cortnay or Maester Cressen to update me if you find you are unable to write yourself.”

Sansa felt as if her heart had been squeezed uncomfortably. “I will write to you often, my husband,” she promised softly, unable to bear the idea of sending him off to war without even the hope of receiving letters from her. He was her husband and the father of the child she very likely carried, _of course_ she would write to him.

Stannis looked surprised by her promise, and perhaps a little gratified? She couldn’t be certain.

“Does Shireen know?” Sansa asked, wondering if it would fall to her to tell Stannis’ daughter of his impending departure.

“I will tell her later today,” Stannis said, staring down at his hands, “she is my current heir. There are things she must be made aware of...”

_... in the event of my death._

The words he had not said sounded louder for having remained unspoken.

“Do you think you will be away for a very long time?” she asked after taking several deep breaths.

Stannis heaved a great sigh and unclasped his hands stiffly so that he might rub his eyes. “I have no way of knowing. My instincts tell me this will not be an easy fight,” he began, dropping his hands to the desk, “winter is coming,” he said sardonically, “and wars can just as easily be lost due to the dark and the cold as they can be lost to a powerful enemy.”

Sansa blanched and looked down at her lap. The silk of her gown was very pretty, but she didn’t see it. She was thinking of the life that might be growing inside of her, and imagining what she would want if she was in her husband’s place. Would she want to be told about the possibility? Probably… But what if it was a false pregnancy? Her mother had told her that those happened all the time, and that it was safest to wait until a maester was able to confirm that she was pregnant before saying anything.

She couldn’t make herself say the words. She couldn’t face the idea of telling him she might be carrying his child and planting such a hope, and then possibly being forced to send him a letter explaining that she had been wrong. Such a letter would surely be an unnecessary blow to a man fighting a war.

“Was there anything else, my lord?” Sansa asked after the silence of the room had become oppressive.

“I should like for you to come to my chambers after the feast,” Stannis said, obviously attempting to sound abrupt and free of emotion. The heat in his eyes betrayed him, however, and the faint tinge of red that coloured his cheekbones.

“Of course,” Sansa said. It would be their last night together for a long time and Sansa could not imagine leaving him to sleep alone. Doing so would have felt very cruel and unfeeling. She would not do that to him even if he had just treated her abominably by leaving it so late to tell her of his departure.

“Then I think there is nothing else,” Stannis said with a curt nod. “My lady,” he then said, dismissing her.

Sansa rose and turned to walk to the door, but hesitated and walked around the desk to stand beside her husband instead. He looked up in surprise, ready to shoot an irritated question at her, but she pressed a quick kiss to his lips and locked eyes with him, telling him without words that she only wished to express her regard for him and that nothing needed to be said. He nodded, his face redder now than ever, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

She turned to leave again, and this time she did not hesitate.


	16. Farewell

To Sansa, the farewell feast was a somber affair. She was glad that her younger siblings and Jeyne would be staying with her in Storm’s End, for she knew that if it weren’t for them she would not have been able to keep from weeping openly at the feast. Her father and elder brothers would undoubtedly become just as involved as her husband in the war at the Wall, and it was impossible to know whether any of them would survive. Even worse was the terrible twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever she thought of how callous Stannis had been to keep the fact that he was leaving from her. It was not how a lord ought treat his lady and Sansa was deeply hurt by his disregard for her position and her feelings. Did he not respect her at all? Did she mean so little to him? 

The fact that she might be carrying his child made the urge to weep even stronger. The idea of bringing a child into the world without knowing whether Stannis would be there to be its father was terrifying. She kept having to bite her tongue, again and again; the desire to tell her husband she might already be pregnant with his heir becoming overwhelming as the evening wore on. She wanted to know if the knowledge would change his behaviour towards her or whether he’d somehow find a way to stay with her, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. The odds of Stannis being able to stay after the king had commanded him to go were nonexistent, and the idea of having to write that disappointing letter nagged at her.

Gods, if only she had never left Winterfell. She would not have these concerns if she were safe in her warm home…

But Storm’s End was her home now.

“When did Winterfell start to feel like a home to you?” Sansa asked her mother when some of the knights had started to sing an old song of war and valour. Many of them would be leaving along with her husband, though a few would stay behind to garrison Storm’s End. It was easy to have a private conversation as the noise of the song made certain no one would overhear.

“I don’t think I can name the hour or the day it happened,” her mother said with a fond smile, “one day I simply realised that Winterfell was the home of my children. The home of my family. _My_ home.”

Sansa nodded and felt like she might understand what her mother meant.

“Riverrun will always be my first home,” Catelyn said, her smile still in place, “but your father made me feel welcome in Winterfell, and I grew to love the north just as I grew to love him.”

“Did you love him when he went away to war? When you were pregnant with Robb?” Sansa asked, careful to keep her face blank.

“No, we had only been together for a very short time and I still mourned his brother,” her mother said, her smile becoming sad. Catelyn took Sansa’s hands in her own and squeezed them lightly. “Don’t worry about Lord Stannis. He is an able leader of men, a cunning strategist, and a strong fighter. He will return to you and you will give him his heirs. When the children come you will feel love that is unlike anything you have ever imagined.”

Sansa nodded, not really feeling comforted by her mother’s words but trying to pretend that she was.

“You may even be with child already,” her mother added, giving Sansa a knowing look.

Her mother had been asking Sansa whether she was doing her duty every day since she had arrived, interrogating her about her moon blood and whether her breasts felt tender, and Sansa had been doing her best to answer without lying or revealing the truth. Sansa was almost certain that her mother had understood the delicate state of her situation, and Sansa was relieved that she seemed content to keep the secret and pretend not to know. She probably knew that Sansa would tell her secret when Maester Pylos confirmed that she was truly with child. Sansa was also relieved when her mother stopped giving her advice meant to help her conceive a child and started dropping hints about things that would help her have a successful pregnancy and birth instead. There were only so many times Sansa could stand hearing her mother talk about how to position her legs as her husband coupled with her, and how to lift her hips and remain still for as long as possible once his seed was spent within her. During one such conversation her mother had forgotten that Sansa’s father had been in the vicinity, and judging by the look that appeared on his face as he overheard his wife explaining the importance of not letting any seed go to waste, he did not have a particularly high tolerance for listening to such talk either. Thankfully he had left before her mother had started to talk about the ideal number of times to couple with her husband each night.

“I’ve told you,” Sansa said in a low voice, “I can’t be certain.”

“If it turns out that you are,” her mother began, speaking slowly and hesitantly, “I urge you to write to us with all due haste.” There was excitement in her mother’s eyes, but it was accompanied by a different, more serious, expression. “It will be safest to send a raven to Winterfell,” her mother continued, “the news will be sure to reach us there, and it is easy to send messages from Winterfell to the Wall.”

Sansa nodded, wondering why her mother did not look as pleased as she usually did when the subject of Sansa’s likely pregnancy was up for discussion.

“Ask Maester Pylos or Maester Cressen to examine you frequently if things progress,” her mother whispered, giving her a sad, determined look, “if anything unusual were to happen it is important that they know about it _immediately._ ”

Sansa suddenly understood why the excitement had gone from her mother’s voice. 

She was afraid.

“Remember what we spoke of when I carried Rickon?”

Sansa’s chest constricted at the memory of that particular conversation. The fear she had felt when her mother had sat her down to explain what Sansa’s duties would be should she die in the birthing bed came back to her, as sharp and as fresh as it had been all those years ago.

“Yes,” Sansa whispered.

“A woman’s war is in the birthing bed, Sansa,” her mother said, “you must take good care of yourself while you carry a child, and listen to the maesters.” The fear and worry in her mother’s eyes was starting to make Sansa’s heartbeat quicken as the gravity of her situation suddenly became very clear to her.

“Is there anything I can do to make sure everything happens as it should?” Sansa asked, searching her mother’s face for answers, wondering if there was truly anything that could be done to prevent herself from dying as her Grandmother Minisa had. The hints her mother had been dropping for the past few days had all sounded quite sensible, but Sansa did not really think abstaining from wine and taking frequent walks in fresh air could really make that much of a difference.

“Listen to the maesters,” her mother repeated, “eat wholesome, nourishing meals to keep your strength up...” 

She hesitated, giving Sansa an anguished look.

“... and pray.”

Sansa blanched, but nodded. She knew she would be visiting the sept every day.

Her mother took Sansa’s hands and held them tightly in her own. “I am sure you will do well, sweetling. Be cautious, but don’t - don’t be afraid.”

Their eyes met. 

Sansa had often heard it said that she had her mother’s eyes, and had she been able to observe both herself and her mother from outside her own body she was certain she would have thought that their eyes had never looked more alike than they did at that moment. All of the fear and uncertainty she felt was reflected in her mother’s gaze.

The knights stopped singing and the moment was suddenly gone. Her mother shook her head and smiled, and Sansa did her best to push her fear away. 

This was not the time.

The feast was not only a somber affair, it was also rather a peculiar one. Sansa did not feel up to dancing - which never happened - and Arya actually managed to behave, wear her gown without a fuss _and_ dance with some of the knights like a well brought up young lady. It was the most suspicious display Sansa had ever witnessed, but while her mother was convinced that Arya was finally growing up, Sansa had to suppress an unladylike snort at the very idea.

It was strange to be saying good-bye to one part of her family but not the other, and it was strange to know that tonight might be her last chance to ever speak to some of the men who would be going to war. It was unlikely that they would all survive. Sansa had not been made aware of the fact that so many of the men from Storm’s End would be leaving with her husband until the last moment, otherwise she would have prepared gifts for them to take along -- small favours or little edible treats. She felt very remiss in her duties to have nothing to give them, so she had made sure the kitchens did not listen to Stannis’ orders about rationing the ale and the wine. She had good wine and plenty of ale sent to the feast hall, and she took the time to personally speak to as many of the men as she was able, thanking them for their service and wishing them well.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of Lord Stannis,” Jon said with a kind smile when she came over to the group he was sitting with. Robb was there too, and they all looked like they had been enjoying the wine very much.

“Yes, my lady, he will be back before you know it, and then you’ll be begging us to take him off your hands!” Ser Humfrey said with a grin.

“Whatever do you mean by that, ser?” Sansa said, feeling herself blush.

“Only that I have heard Lord Stannis does not give you much peace at night, my lady,” Ser Humfrey chortled.

Jon hit the back of Ser Humfrey’s head and glared at him. “Have you forgotten your manners?” he hissed.

“What?” Ser Humfrey said, sounding indignant, “I said ‘my lady’ did I not?”

Jon redoubled the strength of his glare but said nothing else.

“Is that true, Sansa?” Robb asked jovially, an amused light in his eyes.

“Is what true?” Sansa said, stalling for time.

“Is Lord Stannis very eager for an heir?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Sansa said, fussily rearranging her skirt and smoothing it out.

“From what the maids tell me, they rarely have to make both the lord and lady’s bed. It’s usually only the one or the other that’s been slept in,” Ser Humfrey said, still chortling.

“Mother will be pleased,” Robb said, raising an eyebrow, “she can’t stop going on about how important it is for you to start making babies.”

“Please, this is not a proper topic of conversation,” Sansa said, her cheeks burning and her shoulders tense.

“I agree, let us rather hear about the woman you intend to wed,” Jon said, directing his words at Robb.

“Father has found you a bride?” Sansa asked, feeling excited and curious but also a little put out that this was the first she was hearing of it.

“Shut up,” Robb hissed at Jon, shooting him an angry glare.

Jon started to speak in a ridiculous mocking voice that was obviously supposed to sound like Robb. “She should have blond hair, blue eyes and white teeth. I won’t marry a girl whose smile would make me ill,” Jon said with a rare grin, clearly enjoying the blush that was painting Robb’s entire face red. Robb was still glaring and contorting his face into a scowl that might have competed with one of her husband’s own. “And she must know how to sing just as well as Sansa, and laugh just as freely as Arya…” Jon went on in the same silly voice, but it seemed that Robb had reached his limit. He lunged for Jon, and Jon stood up and ran away, laughing heartily and leading Robb on a merry chase all around the hall as if they were still small boys.

Sansa rolled her eyes and looked over at her mother. Catelyn Stark was looking very irritated that her son was behaving in such a manner at a feast and seemed to be on the verge of attempting to put an end to the unseemly display. Sansa glanced at her father and saw that he hadn’t even noticed. He and Stannis were discussing something and looking very serious. With a pang Sansa realised it probably had something to do with their plans for the journey north and the war they would both be involved in. That had to be why they had been speaking to each other so much over the past fortnight.

Why couldn’t her husband have taken the time to speak to her, too? The twisting feeling in her stomach returned every time she thought of how Stannis hadn’t seen fit to inform her, and she felt utterly helpless and forlorn at the idea that he simply did not care for her enough to tell her such important things.

Sansa went to sit by Bran, feeling a need for his calming presence. He was the only Stark to be allowed his direwolf in the feast hall, and Sansa scratched Summer behind the ears before sitting down.

“Do you mind that you’re staying?” Sansa asked him, realising that she didn’t know Bran’s thoughts on the matter.

“I miss home,” Bran said with a small smile, “but it’s warmer here.”

“I miss Winterfell, too.”

“But you’re the lady of the keep, here. You would never be Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa sighed. “I know.”

Bran gave her an odd look. “Unless Robb, Rickon and I all died.”

Sansa felt as if she had been struck by lightning. “Don’t say such things. It’s bad luck,” she hissed in a horrified whisper.

“Don’t worry,” Bran said soothingly, “that won’t happen.”

Summer shifted his head towards Sansa in order to lick her hand, and she felt better for it. It was something Lady might have done had she been near.

“Do you think Father, Robb and Jon will be all right?” Sansa asked in a low whisper.

“You’re not going to ask if I think Lord Stannis will be all right, too?” Bran asked, tilting his head to the right. Summer tilted his head to the right, too.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be concerned about him,” Sansa said, blushing.

“He’s my good-brother, is he not?” Bran said, “and he’s the father of my niece or nephew.” The way Bran said it, glancing at her flat stomach, made Sansa stare at him with wide eyes. 

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Bran asked matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not certain,” Sansa said, looking down at the floor. That wasn’t really the truth. She _was_ certain. She had not bled since before her wedding. The symptoms were clear, and she could see it in Maester Pylos’ eyes whenever he looked at her. They were just waiting to see if it would last long enough to be worth announcing.

“I look forward to meeting the baby,” Bran said, smiling widely, “congratulations, Sansa.”

It felt wonderful to be congratulated, to have someone know that the pregnancy was real and would result in a healthy child. “Thank you,” she whispered, returning Bran’s smile a little nervously.

“How did you know?” Sansa asked, curious to know whether Bran had simply guessed or if she were betraying some sign she was not aware of.

“Lady knows,” Bran said and shrugged, “Summer knows.”

Perhaps Sansa ought to have been baffled by that statement, but she only nodded. She might not understand the full power of the connection between herself and Lady, Jon and Ghost, Bran and Summer, Arya and Nymeria, Robb and Grey Wind, and Rickon and Shaggydog, but she knew there was a special connection. Somehow she was neither surprised nor confused that Bran had been able to learn what Summer knew.

“I think Lord Stannis wants a word with you,” Bran suddenly said, looking over to where her husband was still standing with her father.

Sansa looked over her shoulder and saw that Bran spoke true. Stannis was watching her intently and once their eyes met he made an impatient gesture with his hand for her to approach. Sansa nodded at her husband and looked back at Bran.

“I must go to him,” Sansa said to her brother, touching his arm and smiling.

Bran understood and Summer licked Sansa’s hand again, his wet tongue making her giggle.

“My husband,” Sansa said when she approached Stannis, “Father.” She nodded at them both in turn.

“It’s late,” Stannis said, “I shall retire now.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Sansa knew he wanted her to leave the feast with him, and although she knew it was her duty, it was hard to leave knowing that this would be her last chance to feast with her mother and father for a long time.

“Good night, Father,” Sansa said to Ned, standing up on the tips of her toes to place a kiss on his cheek. “I will see you in the morning,” she added, touching his shoulder and feeling suddenly quite tearful.

“Yes, let us leave our good-byes for the morrow,” Ned said, his long face looking tired and grey. “Good night, Sansa.”

Stannis led her over to her mother and she was able to exchange words with her before Stannis raised his voice and announced that the lord and lady of the keep would be retiring.

“Please continue to eat, drink, dance and make merry in our absence, however,” Sansa said in a loud, confident tone of voice as soon as her husband has spoken. She caught her mother’s eye and Catelyn nodded at her approvingly.

There was a loud roar of appreciation from the crowd, and everyone toasted their health before they left the hall. Sansa noticed that Stannis seemed taken aback by this, or at least he stiffened and blinked a few times as if he weren’t quite sure what he was perceiving.

He was silent as he led her to his chambers and Sansa wondered if he was feeling a fraction of what she was. He did not look as if he were feeling anything but irritation and exhaustion, but she did not dare examine him very carefully as they walked.

Once inside the lord’s chambers Stannis sat down at a table that often held a jug of water and some water goblets. He poured himself a cup and shot her a questioning look as if to ask if she wanted water, too. She shook her head, not feeling up to swallowing much of anything. Would this be their last night together? Would he live to share her bed again? It seemed utterly strange that tonight might be her last chance to lie with him as it seemed to her that they had only just been at their wedding feast yesterday.

“Do you need assistance disrobing?” Stannis asked after he had gulped down his water.

Sansa’s handmaids usually helped her with her gown before bed, but if Stannis would be willing to unlace her, Sansa thought she would probably be able to manage the rest on her own. She told him as much, and though he reddened slightly at being told he would need to unlace her gown, he did not send her away to disrobe in her chambers. Instead he rose and instructed her to turn around so that he might look at the back of her gown. It was a new one; a deep dark blue that Sansa had not realised matched Stannis’ eyes until she had first worn it, and it was shot through with silver thread that caught the candlelight when she moved. Sansa was very fond of it and she wanted to ask Stannis to be careful not to damage the delicate silk, but bit her tongue. She had a feeling he would not take well to being ordered about thusly. He was not a handmaid.

It was strangely intimate to feel Stannis’ fingers at her back, tugging on the ribbons that held her gown closed and moving her curled hair out of the way. The knowledge that it was her _husband_ who was doing these things was making her breathe a little faster and her heart was pounding in a way it certainly never did when her maids assisted her.

“There,” Stannis said after a while and Sansa felt the gown loosen.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, turning around to face him a little shyly.

He watched her as she carefully removed her gown, making sure not to snag the fabric or wrinkle it unnecessarily. It was odd to be watched like that, but Stannis had seen her naked often enough, so Sansa tried not to let it bother her. She took off her shift and was about to remove her smallclothes when Stannis suddenly moved. “Could I?” he asked hoarsely, wearing that expression she had first seen on their wedding night, the one that made Sansa suspect he was bracing himself for rejection or mockery.

Sansa dropped her hands to her sides and nodded at her husband, blushing faintly and starting to feel rather excited.

His hands were large and clumsy when it came to carefully unfastening delicate things like a lady’s smallclothes, but he managed it without getting himself in trouble or ruining anything. Sansa hardly dared to breathe while he worked, not wanting to disturb his concentration and just feeling _tense_. When she was left naked before him she took a deep breath, needing the air. Stannis eyes were drawn to her chest as it expanded and she noticed him swallow and clench his jaw.

“Shall I assist you, my lord?” Sansa whispered, reaching hesitantly for the fastenings of his doublet.

Stannis grunted, his eyes still on her chest.

She decided that the noise he made was a noise of assent and began to patiently disrobe him. He helped her, and soon they were both standing by his bed, naked and flushed. Sansa wanted to look at his manhood and see whether he was ready, but Stannis had taken care of his breeches himself, and Sansa felt like it was impolite to stare. She watched his face instead, making note of the way his eyes roamed over her figure and the way his pupils dilated, hiding the blue of his irises.

“This is to be our last night together before you leave for war,” Sansa began, taking a deep tremulous breath, “and I have no favour to give you, my husband.” She hadn’t had the time to prepare a gift for him to take to the Wall, and it made her feel as if she had failed in her duty as his wife.

“I have your favour,” Stannis muttered, reaching for his discarded doublet and producing a square of familiar white fabric. It was the handkerchief she had made for him.

Sansa felt her heart soften even as she shook her head in bewilderment. Her impossible husband was so _contradictory._ How was it possible for him to treat her carelessly one moment, and then show her such a sign that he _did_ care the next? 

“I should have liked to give you something new,” she explained, smiling sadly.

Stannis looked away from her as he folded the handkerchief and placed it on his nightstand and seemed to be at a bit of a loss. After a moment he got on the bed and covered himself with the bedclothes. Sansa followed him, fitting her body to his in a familiar embrace. Stannis started to stroke her hair, and she closed her eyes to concentrate on the pleasurable sensation.

For a wild moment Sansa wondered if she ought to offer Stannis a lock of her hair to take with him, but discarded the idea almost at once. Stannis would think it overly sentimental…

No, Sansa thought he would be much better pleased if she offered him something else. Something she knew he liked. She was determined not to allow the way he had treated her change her treatment of him. It had been hurtful and insulting that he had not included her in his plans, but she would not let their last night together be tainted by her disappointment and hurt feelings. She wanted to give him - at least the part of him that always carried her favour - good memories to take with him to the Wall.

“I should like you to be pleased with me this night,” she whispered. 

“What do you mean?” Stannis asked, sounding mildly irritated.

Sansa lifted her head so that she might look at him. His hand fell away from her hair.

“I mean that I would have you take me in whatever way most pleases you, my lord.”

His eyes widened and his pupils blew out, darkening his eyes. For a moment she thought he would kiss her, but then a flash of some very powerful emotion caused him to furrow his brow and scowl. “It would please me if you were to give me a _son_ ,” Stannis said harshly. He seemed torn between arousal and anger; his face was very red and his breathing had become suddenly much more laboured. Her words had clearly had their intended effect and made him desire her fiercely, but his equally fierce desire for an heir was just as obviously distressing him.

 _I have to tell him_ something, she thought, wanting more than anything to reassure him that she was with child -- that his heir might very well be on his way.

“I will write to you if life quickens within me as a result of our time together,” Sansa said, biting her lip and wishing she could be _certain_ that the baby in her belly would continue to grow; wishing that she could send him away with the whole truth.

“Is it possible?” Stannis asked, searching her eyes with a frantic desperation she had never seen from him before.

“I think so. I cannot know quite yet,” Sansa said calmly, stroking his shoulder and trying to breathe steadily, “Maester Pylos tells me that whether I will fall pregnant or not is a matter of delicate timing.” It was not the full truth, but perhaps her cautious words would give Stannis reason to hope? At least a little?

“It is,” Stannis said, looking irritated, “I know it is.”

“ _Speaking_ of it will not make it happen,” Sansa said, trying to distract him by suggesting that he might attempt some action instead. He would not have an opportunity to receive the sort of comfort a wife could give where he was going, after all. Even if there were women near the Wall, she doubted his scruples would allow him to lie with one of them. She had come to understand that Stannis took duty very seriously, and that included upholding the vows he had taken in the Great Sept of Baelor. 

If Stannis returned from this war he would not shame her by bringing a bastard along with him. Sansa loved Jon, but she had never understood how her father had been able to hurt her mother the way he had. It was good to know that Stannis would do no such thing.

She did not doubt Stannis’ honour, but she could not help but wonder what her mother had thought when she bade her father farewell. Had she been certain that he would not betray her? Had she even considered the possibility? Or had she perhaps not thought of it at all?

Sansa shook the thought from her head and focused on Stannis. Would Stannis lie with her if he knew she was very likely already with child? Would he forego the comfort and the pleasure she could give him, even though he was going to war? Sansa was almost curious enough to find out, but the thought of the letter she would have to write if she bled stopped her.

Stannis bared his teeth for a moment before rising up and then descending on her as a falcon would on his prey, kissing her with feverish passion and using his hands and his bulk to pin her underneath him. She could feel his manhood: hot, hard and ready against her belly, and she moaned into the brutal kiss in response to the sensation.

It would have felt frightening to be pinned down by Stannis’ heavier, stronger body if she hadn’t known that he would not hurt her. As it was, she felt a little overwhelmed and stifled by his weight, but there was something thrilling about his uncontrolled movements, his greedy kisses and his near-bruising grip on her body. This was not about duty, she knew. Stannis might imagine he was doing his duty and trying to use his last opportunity to sire an heir before he left, but his every touch betrayed the fact that he was overcome by his desire for her.

His hand found its way between her thighs and started to roughly and impatiently rub at her in an attempt to make her ready for him. Thankfully she had already been aroused by the way he had undressed her and kissed her so eagerly, and was therefore already damp enough to tolerate his crude touch without too much discomfort. After a few moments he seemed to get himself under control and started to touch her in a more enjoyable way. She made sure to sigh with pleasure to let him know that he was on the right track and was rewarded with more of the gentle touches.

“Oh… my lord, I think - I think I’m ready,” she told him after a short while, not wanting him to get impatient and revert to the rougher touches again.

Stannis responded to her words at once, removing his hand and pressing his manhood against her in its place, groaning with relief and pleasure. He did not seek to enter her, however, choosing instead to rub himself against her folds and make her writhe about and whimper, her increasing need for him driving her to distraction.

“Please, my lord,” Sansa moaned after an eternity of waiting for him to push inside, “ _please._ ”

Stannis hesitated and pulled away, drawing an indignant sound of protest from her. He looked at her with a curiously conflicted expression on his face, obviously trying to come to some sort of decision.

“Turn around,” he said hoarsely after a little while, his face crimson and the muscles of his jaw tense.

Sansa hurried to comply, her heart beating frantically with excitement and much more warm moisture dampening her between her thighs. Stannis had not sought to take her this way since the first time and she did not know why. She knew it was not because he disliked every new thing they had ever tried because he regularly asked her to sit astride him, and she knew it was not because he had disliked the way it had felt. He had most definitely enjoyed it -- she was quite certain about that.

Once she was on her hands and knees in front of him, her head facing away from his body and her thighs spread as much as she dared, she heard the way his breathing came out in irregular bursts and she felt the mattress shift as he knelt behind her.

She risked a glance over her shoulder, wanting to see his eyes, wanting so badly to know what he was thinking and feeling.

***

Stannis could not remember feeling as powerless as he felt in bed with his young wife at this very moment.

He was leaving her, not knowing if his seed would quicken. Not knowing if she would grow round with his child in his absence. He could not command it to happen, he could not control any part of the mysterious process. All he could do was spill his seed inside of her and _hope._

It had never done much good to hope with Selyse. She had fallen pregnant again and again only to bleed the little lives they had created out from between her legs _again and again._

Could it be that he would be so unfortunate with his second wife? She seemed so healthy, so _strong._ Her mother had successfully birthed five children; _three_ sons. But her mother’s sister had only given Jon Arryn one sickly son, and hadn’t her mother’s mother died in the birthing bed? The thought caused his heart to skip a beat, and his breath to catch.

Mentally shaking his head, Stannis told himself it was pointless to think on these things and tried to concentrate on making Sansa ready for him. She clearly liked the way he was touching her, and her sighs of pleasure were making his cock harden more and more. Her words repeated themselves in his head - her offer to let him take her in the way that would please him most - and he could not stop visualising her on her hands and knees. But he had not yet broken his promise to himself, and he did not want to do it now.

“Oh… my lord, I think - I think I’m ready,” Sansa moaned, distracting him from his thoughts.

Desperately needing to feel her damp softness, his hurried to place his cock near her entrance, getting himself wet with her moisture and groaning at the pleasurable feeling.

It was torture to know that he would not have this, would not have _her_ while he was away. If he died at the hand of some savage wildling this would be his last night with Sansa. His last chance to sire an heir; _his last chance to take her the way he wanted to._ The image of her on her hands and knees before him returned, stronger than before, weakening his resolve.

“Please, my lord,” Sansa begged, writhing underneath him in a very pleasurable way, “ _please._ ”

She had offered to please him in any way that he wished, hadn’t she? The memory of how good the _utter control_ had felt assaulted him and he couldn’t fight it anymore. He might be powerless when it came to deciding whether Sansa would fall pregnant, but mounting her like a stallion might make him feel powerful again. And perhaps it was as good a position as any to conceive a child?

“Turn around,” he commanded, feeling tense and concerned that she might deny him. What if she had not meant to offer him _this?_

But Sansa was obedient as ever, and she was soon on her hands and knees before him -- just as he had imagined. He couldn’t move or breathe properly for a brief moment, too mesmerised by the sight of her and too excited by the prospect of taking her like this again.

She looked over her shoulder at him, a curious gleam in her eyes, and he was suddenly charged with energy and the need to get on with things. Meeting her gaze for a short moment was enough to make his cock twitch with desire, and he tore his eyes from hers in order to look down at himself and steer the head of his cock to her entrance. He was obliged to spread his thighs widely to line himself up with her, but he did not mind. It was hard to pay any notice to complaining muscles when faced with the view he was privy to. His cock was sliding easily into Sansa’s wet sheath, and he could watch as it disappeared into her body, stretching her open to accommodate him. He moaned when he was buried to the hilt and Sansa had been moaning from the moment he started to sink into her. She moved to rest on her elbows now, changing the angle slightly but not in a way he disliked.

“Please,” she begged again, her voice muffled as her face was pressed against her forearms.

Knowing what she wanted, he grabbed her hips and started to pull out again. The feeling of control washed over him as he made sure she could not move by tightening his hold on her, enjoying the way she was trying - but unable - to chase his cock as he withdrew. It was his choice when to plunge back inside and she would just have to wait. It took a lot of self control, but he was able to fill her slowly and pull out just as gradually a few times, just to wordlessly teach her that he was the one who would decide.

“ _Stannis!_ ” she gasped in the end, her voice becoming an imploring whimper.

He was out of self control, anyway.

With a grunt he started to thrust quickly and decisively, revelling in the friction the movement created and the sounds that started to pour from Sansa -- even though they were muffled. Curious about whether he could get her to become even louder he started to withdraw almost completely from her warmth after each thrust forward, only to slam himself back inside with considerable force. Not only did Sansa’s sounds of pleasure become louder at this, but their bodies created loud smacking noises whenever they came together, too. Stannis knew this was shameful and wrong, knew this was not how a lord ought treat his lady, but he couldn’t stop. The pleasure of the sight of her in front of him like this, the sounds, the scent of her arousal in the air… it was all too good to give up. 

He was disappointed when he felt his climax approach, wanting to go on like this for much longer, wanting to hear the smacks and the helpless whimpers of pleasure for the rest of the night, but there was no fighting this. His release came like a charging destrier, and he groaned with frustration and pleasure as he tried to bury himself as deep as he could get, leaning over until his chest was flush against Sansa’s back and his lips could reach her neck. He bit her possessively, just where her neck met her shoulder, feeling the mad urge to mark her as _his._

“Oh, gods!” Sansa cried out, trembling beneath him, her inner muscles fluttering around his cock, urging him on even though he was utterly spent. It made him irrationally angry and he pulled out with an unpleasant, rather obscene wet sound, rolling over to lie on his back beside her. 

Why did he have to be so _old?_ It was not fair that he should be given a young, beautiful _eager_ wife when he was unable to last, unable to become hard very quickly after a release… 

And now he would be leaving. Unable to satisfy her at all. Unable to keep an eye on her.

He had made certain that all the young knights would be coming along with him to the Wall, but there were still young men in Storm’s End. Young, handsome, _virile_ men. Edric Storm would remain as he was squired to Ser Cortnay, and he was somehow growing taller and more handsome every time Stannis saw him. It was utterly infuriating.

“My lord?” Sansa said softly, “you’re grinding your teeth.”

The familiar ache in his jaw was there and he realised she spoke true. He made an effort to stop, but his helpless fury was still bubbling under the surface of his skin.

“The septa that your sister is always avoiding, what is her name?” he asked abruptly, a plan forming in his mind.

“Septa Mordane?” Sansa provided, sounding confused.

“I wish to speak to her before I leave tomorrow. You will send for her,” he ordered, feeling a little better for having decided on a course of action.

“Of course, my husband,” Sansa said, reaching for him and petting his chest gently.

He grunted, feeling tired and drained now that his sudden jealous rage was fading.

“Shall we go to sleep?” she asked.

“We might as well,” Stannis sighed, knowing that he would not be able to become aroused enough to take her again anytime soon.

“It will be strange,” Sansa said in a far away tone of voice, “going to sleep without you nearby tomorrow night.”

Stannis didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept silent.

“I will pray for your safe return to me,” she added, placing a chaste kiss on his lips.

He did not know how to respond to that either, and he wasn’t entirely certain he believed her. If he perished at sea or in battle she would be a free to marry a younger, more desirable lord. Perhaps Robert would legitimise Edric Storm and Sansa would stay on as Lady of Storm’s End and the king’s good-daughter. He doubted Robert would allow Shireen to inherit as she rightfully should.

“Stannis, your teeth,” Sansa said, touching his jaw lightly. He liked the way she said his name and wondered if she would say ‘Edric’ as sweetly when she inevitably ended up with him.

He rolled to rest on top of her, pinning her down with his weight. “You’re mine,” he growled, his rage back in full force.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” Sansa whispered, looking up at him in pale, wide-eyed surprise.

He wanted to demand that she swear to him that she would not betray him, but he could not get the ridiculous words out.

“You are my _wife,_ ” he hissed instead, bearing down on her and probably making it difficult for her to breathe.

Sansa blinked up at him and and parted her lips; whether to speak or to get more air he did not know.

“I will come back. I will slay the wildlings who dare attack the Wall and I will return,” he insisted.

“I pray that you do, my husband,” Sansa choked out with obvious difficulty. She still hadn’t attempted to push him off, however.

He rolled off, feeling irritated with his own lack of self control and with Sansa’s perfect responses. He could not understand her. Even when he pushed her, when he acted a brute, she was unfailingly courteous, tolerating his temper and betraying no desire to seek another man’s company.

“I take my vows seriously, my lord,” Sansa whispered, lying still on her back and not attempting to touch him.

Stannis scoffed, knowing how most people took their vows seriously up until it was inconvenient for them to do so. Sansa was young and she did her duty very enthusiastically. She would undoubtedly find it difficult to remain unsatisfied in his absence.

“Have I done anything to make you believe I do not?” she asked quietly.

Of course she hadn’t. That was not the point. He scowled at the canopy of his four-poster, feeling powerless again. He hated it.

When he didn’t answer her question she breathed a small sigh. “You know I will write to you often, my lord,” she promised, turning to fit herself against him in a familiar way; her hand going to his chest and her fingers stroking the dark hair there.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore his discomfort and his misery, tried instead to focus on her gentle fingers and her warm, soft body.

“It is not my choice to leave,” he said after a while, unable to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

“I know,” Sansa whispered, rising up to kiss him. He couldn’t bring himself to kiss her back, but she did not seem to mind. The gentle touch of her lips reminded him of the kiss she had bestowed upon him after he had told her he would be leaving for the war at the Wall, and he felt again the guilt he had felt at that moment. He was not sure what Selyse would have done if he had left it so late to tell her something of similar importance, but he very much doubted she would have kissed him.

They were quiet after that, and eventually he heard Sansa’s breathing deepen with sleep.

“I will return,” he muttered, tightening his hold on his sleeping wife, “I swear it.”

***

Sansa woke up to her husband groping at her and hoarsely demanding her permission to take her. She was confused, but her body responded readily enough to his familiar touch, so she granted him her leave with a muffled moan. To her surprise he did not climb on top of her or pull her up to sit astride him. They were lying on their sides and his front was flush against her back, his manhood digging into her backside insistently. Instead of assuming a familiar position he simply began to make himself ready to enter her from right where they were lying. It was exciting and she blushed at how damp she already felt. Sansa was required to lift her leg to give him access, but soon he had found her entrance and pushed inside. It felt odd to be taken on her side in such a way, though not uncomfortable. She had been able to relax her leg once he had buried his manhood to the hilt, and it was no strain at all to have him rock against her and hold her securely about her middle, his lips on the back of her neck. It was actually quite remarkably pleasant, all things considered.

She moaned, enjoying the warmth of his embrace and the sparks of pleasure his rocking motions brought her, and tried to arch her back in order to get more of them. Stannis’ breath was loud in her ears and hot on her neck, and his beard was a little scratchy. “Sansa,” he groaned in response to the way she was arching her body, his hold on her tightening.

“Please,” she sighed, “ _please…_ ” She didn’t even know what she was asking for, but Stannis responded by pulling out of her and prodding her until she was lying on her back. He kissed her a little messily, making her wonder if he’d been taking lessons from Shaggydog like Rickon, and encouraged her to spread her legs for him. She folded herself into a very familiar position, knowing it would very likely allow her to reach at least one peak, and moaned his name as he sank back inside of her with an embarrassing wet noise.

The sparks of pleasure turned into more powerful jolts as he began to move, the way their bodies lined up bringing her closer to her release with every thrust of his hips. She couldn’t help the cries that started to escape her lips, but she strained to hear his grunts anyway. The way he sounded and the way his face slackened with pleasure when he was inside of her never failed to arouse her. 

She begged for more and he sped up, pulling out further with each thrust and creating wet smacks when thrust back inside to the hilt. She was _close_ and she whimpered with pleasure, squeezing her eyes shut in order to concentrate.

Stannis seemed to be approaching his own release as he suddenly changed their position to give himself even more leverage. She remained on her back, but he was no longer as close to her, no longer lying on top of her. Instead he was kneeling and pulling her legs so that they rested against his chest, pointing straight up in the air. He started to thrust with as much force as he ever did, holding her ankles to keep her still. Sansa felt her inner muscles start to seize up almost at once, and she sobbed with pleasure as he drove himself into her again and again, panting with the effort of it, sweating and causing her legs to stick to his chest.

She was almost too overwhelmed to make any noise at all when he went into the frenzy that signalled his impending climax, and all she managed to do as he groaned with pleasure was suck in a loud desperate breath and moan as she let it back out.

Once it was all over and they were catching their breath, lying side by side, Sansa wondered how long it would be until she could expect to feel this pleasant ache in her loins again. Wars were not generally known for being particularly brief, and just the journey north took time -- even if one sailed.

She would not really miss Stannis’ scowls and his dark moods, but she would miss sharing his bed and she would miss the man she glimpsed when they were intimate together. She wanted to tell him, but something held her back. Perhaps it was the idea that he might not believe her and become suspicious of her motives, but perhaps it was only that she was afraid of admitting that she had tender feelings for the part of her husband that seemed to care for her. She very much doubted he would welcome such sentimentality even if he believed her, and she could not bear the thought of reaching out to him only to have her feelings hurt.

She still could not quite believe how brutish and possessive he had been after he had _bitten her_ the previous night. His behaviour had been frightening, and she had felt the need to remind him of her vows to him. The pain she had felt in her heart when he had become so aggressive and insistent that she was _his_ had been unbearable, and the mere memory of it hurt her again now. Had she ever shown any man but Stannis particular interest? Had she done anything to indicate that he could not trust her?

Impossible, confusing man.

“You should go to your chambers and get dressed, my lady,” Stannis eventually said, breaking the heavy silence that had been hanging tangibly in the air.

_She would have to wear a gown with a neckline that would conceal the bite mark her husband must surely have left._

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa agreed softly, wishing her chest did not feel so _tight._ “Did you still want me to send for Septa Mordane?” she asked, trying to distract herself with mundane things.

“Have her wait for me in my solar.”

Sansa nodded and started to collect her clothes. She was debating whether to attempt to put them all back on before returning to her room when Stannis suddenly came up behind her, his tall strong body dwarfing hers as he draped his too-large robe across her shoulders. He kissed her neck gently - right where he had bitten her the night before - as he closed the robe around her. Sansa was overwhelmed with memories of how she had always imagined her wedding, and she closed her eyes to try to keep from tearing up. What he had just done had been much closer to her fantasies than what had happened in the Great Sept of Baelor.

“Thank you,” she whispered, turning to smile at him despite the tears that were rising to the surface.

“Go on,” Stannis said gruffly, making an impatient hand gesture. He did not look irritated, however, and his shoulders seemed almost free of tension.

Sansa left, feeling sad and aching in more than one way, wondering if she was making the right choice when it came to how little she was revealing to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, I posted a little "deleted scene" from this story as a Valentine's Day treat. The snippet is set before the Starks come to Storm's End and it focuses on Lady and Stannis. [Here it is.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6002235)


	17. Sea Voyage

Stannis considered the woman in front of him and wondered how much he ought to reveal. He would need to give the septa some reason for why he wished her to watch Sansa, and the woman would need to know what to look for.

“Lady Sansa has been a dutiful wife to me,” he began, “she is obedient, courteous and pleasing. I cannot fault her there.”

Septa Mordane smiled proudly as if he had just spoken well of her own daughter, not simply her charge.

“However,” Stannis gave the woman a sharp look, “her eagerness to be bedded concerns me.”

Mordane looked confused at that and furrowed her brow deeply. “My lord, is it not a lady’s duty to welcome her lord husband and do her best to conceive and bear his heirs?”

Stannis clenched his jaw and decided to make himself perfectly clear. “Lady Sansa is wanton,” he said and clasped his hands together tightly, “she is inappropriately eager to have a man between her legs and I fear her eagerness will not abate when I have left.”

“I am certain she means only to do her duty,” Septa Mordane said, shaking her head as if refusing to believe him.

“Unless she thinks my seed can reach her womb through her mouth I am equally certain that you are mistaken,” he said, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

The septa went very still and the colour seemed to drain from her face as if he had just told her that a close member of her family had been killed. She stared at him in shock and blinked several times before mustering the will to speak. “I see. And… and you believe Lady Sansa might betray you, my lord?” Her voice shook.

He did not know if he truly believed it, but the suspicion and the fear would not leave him be. He had to do _something_ so that he could leave and feel as if he had done what he could to make certain that Sansa would not stray.

“I wish to make certain she is not tempted to do so,” Stannis said at length, meeting the septa’s eyes and holding her gaze. “It would be… unfortunate if she were to shame her family and the people responsible for her moral education in such a way.” Stannis tried to make his words as pointed as he could. If Sansa was wanton it was partly because this septa had not seen to his wife’s upbringing as she ought have. He noted with grim satisfaction that the woman looked uncomfortable and disconcerted. “I do not wish to cause her or her family any distress. I am bringing this matter to you as I believe you are in a good position to watch her and attempt to guide her towards _proper_ behaviour. Have I made myself clear?”

The septa was silent for a long moment, her face still as white as milk.

“Yes, my lord,” the septa said at last, bowing her head, “I will see to it that Lady Sansa is not left unchaperoned while you are away.” She spoke very carefully and her hands were shaking noticeably. Whether from fear or anger he could not say.

“Good,” Stannis said, feeling ill at ease about taking such a measure, but knowing that it would bring him a certain peace of mind if Sansa ended up carrying a child to term while he was away. He wanted to be certain that any child she birthed would be his get, and if having Sansa watched was what it took, he would have it done. More than that he wished to be sure that no other man touched what was _his._

The septa left and Stannis went about the business of putting his solar in order. There was not much to be done except write out some last minute instructions for Ser Cortnay, but he used the time to put his mind in order, too.

He needed to put his confusing and turbulent feelings regarding Sansa aside for the duration of his campaign at the Wall. His _feelings_ would serve no purpose while he was away. They would only be a distraction, and distractions got men killed during times of war. But it was impossible to simply lock away the desire, the jealousy, the protectiveness and the _regard_ he felt. Just as it had proved impossible to squash his hope and his longing for a son over the years. Shireen was his daughter and his heir, but a son… a son would be a gift. 

Stannis shook his head in irritation and sealed the letter for Ser Cortnay. Perhaps distance from Storm’s End and its lady would allow the strength of his feelings to fade until they no longer weighed on him.

***

Saying good-bye to his daughter and wife was more difficult than Stannis could have anticipated or imagined, and he was disconcerted when they both wept. They were graceful and ladylike about it, using handkerchiefs to dry their cheeks as soon as their tears fell, but the fact remained. 

Once he had delivered the expected words and stood back so that Sansa might have a moment with her family he surreptitiously touched the hidden edge of Sansa’s favour. There were probably better places to keep it than up his sleeve, but he liked having it close at hand. One never knew when one might need a handkerchief. He did not need it now, however, as his eyes were dry, but there was a hard lump in his throat and his chest, and he could not bear to linger as the Starks said their farewells.

The sight of Sansa clinging to her father, her hands about his neck in the sort of public display Stannis would never be able to abide, made him hurry away.

Jon caught up to him relatively quickly, and Stannis appreciated it when Jon clapped him on the shoulder in a silent show of support. He nodded at the younger man and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again he felt more focused.

They had a long journey ahead.

***

They had been sailing for several days when Jon dragged a shabbily dressed squire before him, looking both exasperated and more irritated than Stannis had ever seen the knight look.

“We have a stowaway,” Jon said flatly.

Stannis raised an eyebrow. The boy was clearly a squire, surely he had to be making himself useful in that capacity?

“This is no squire,” Jon bit out, apparently having read Stannis’ mind, “this is my sister, Arya Stark.”

“Let go of me,” Arya said and Stannis instantly recognised her voice. She had shorn her hair and dressed as a boy, and with her face all dirty it was not strange that she would have been overlooked by any who did not know her well.

“What is the meaning of this?” Stannis said sharply, addressing the girl.

“I want to fight the wildlings! I don’t want to stay with Sansa and embroider tablecloths!” Arya insisted, fighting her brother’s grip on her.

“Why have you brought her to me?” Stannis sighed, glaring at Jon, “surely this is a matter for Lord and Lady Stark.”

“You are in command of the ship, my lord,” Jon said, “I wished to notify you before going to Father.”

Stannis nodded, pleased despite himself that Jon chose to come to him first.

“Very well,” he muttered, “it’s too late to turn back, but we could put her ashore with a few men and have them run her back to Storm’s End.”

“No, I want to go north! I want to go to the Wall!”

“Hush,” Jon said sharply to his sister, “I will ask father what he wants done with her and make him aware of the option you have suggested, my lord.”

Stannis grunted, dismissing the brother and sister with a wave of his hand.

Later that day Stannis found out that Ned decided to allow Arya to stay aboard, but only if she helped the ship’s cook until their journey came to an end. It went without saying that Arya would only be allowed to go as far as Winterfell once they arrived in the north, though Jon said Arya had protested most fiercely.

“Lady Stark was appalled,” Jon said, shaking his head, “she thought Arya was pleased to stay in the south. Apparently her behaviour at the farewell feast convinced Lady Stark that she was growing up and learning to become a proper lady.”

Stannis grunted, and wondered if this rebellious streak was a feature of all Stark women. Lyanna had run off, disregarding her betrothal to Robert, and Arya was trying to fight a _war._ What would Sansa do while he was away?

“I thought perhaps you would want to write to Lady Sansa and tell her the news. She is sure to have discovered that Arya is missing and will most likely be very concerned.”

Stannis had not intended to write to Sansa so soon, but he could see Jon’s point and nodded. Hopefully the knight would not be able to tell how his heart sped up at the thought of writing to his wife. It was utterly absurd to be excited by the prospect, and Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling irritated with himself.

It took him the better part of the evening to compose the letter to his satisfaction, though it was short and to the point. Every word was carefully selected, each stroke of the pen precise.

_Lady Sansa,_

_Your sister Arya has been found aboard the Fury, disguised as a squire. She is hale and has been put to work in the galley. Your father has decided to take her to Winterfell._

_The weather has held and we are making good time._

_I trust you are well._

_Give my regards to Shireen._

_Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm’s End and Dragonstone_

It took several days for Sansa’s reply to find the ship and Stannis made himself wait until he was alone before opening the letter. It was much longer than the one he had sent her.

_My lord husband,_

_Your letter brought me much relief. I suspected Arya might have stowed away, but I could not know for certain. Nymeria is still here and misses my sister terribly. I suppose she will have to stay until further notice._

_Storm’s End feels quite empty now that you and so many of the other men have gone. Jeyne Poole, Septa Mordane, Lady Penrose and Lady Shireen are keeping me company, however, and running the household occupies much of my time. I also enjoy spending time with my brothers. Bran is particularly fond of riding in the godswood, and I sometimes walk with him. He pretends to complain about having to make his horse walk slowly when I am there, but I absolutely refuse to ride unless I must. Septa Mordane often accompanies us on these excursions as she is fond of fresh air and exercise, though she does not like it when Nymeria and Shaggydog run about wildly and play at chasing her. Lady and Summer are much too well behaved to do anything like that, of course, though they always come along, too._

_I think Lady misses your company early in the morning. She starts whining around the time you always used to get up, and won’t stop until I wake up and entertain her._

_I believe Shireen has written a letter that I will send along with this one. She seems to be doing fairly well and Maester Pylos tells me she is progressing more quickly through her lessons than he expected._

_Perhaps it is just that winter is coming, but my chambers feel colder now that I am sleeping alone every night._

_I pray to the old gods and the new for the weather to continue to hold and I pray for your safe return._

_Yours,_   
_Lady Sansa Baratheon_

Stannis could not help reading the last lines over and over until they were burned into his memory. She felt her bed was colder without him there? She prayed for his return? She signed the letter as _his_? It all seemed quite sentimental, but perhaps he was mistaken?

What did she mean by it?

The letter from Shireen was not illuminating at all when it came to the meaning of Sansa’s letter. Shireen spoke of her lessons, of Maester Pylos, Patches and Edric Storm. (Stannis ground his teeth as he read the bastard's name) She mentioned Sansa, too, but only in passing.

Stannis brooded over Sansa's letter for days before finally asking for Jon's opinion.

"So?" Stannis asked Jon impatiently once he had read the letter. Jon was grimacing and shifting from foot to foot, glancing frequently from the letter in his hands to the door that led out of Stannis' cabin.

"Er, I'd say she misses you, my lord."

 _Could she really?_ Stannis thought it very unlikely and scoffed at Jon's suggestion, muttering that it was an absurd notion.

Jon squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, still grimacing as if he were in pain. "I doubt she would have written anything she did not mean."

Stannis crossed his arms and stared suspiciously at his friend.

“You asked for my opinion,” Jon sighed, “and I have given it. Might I have your leave to get back to my post, my lord?”

Stannis grunted and waved his hand, dismissing Jon. Jon disappeared very quickly, but Stannis was too deep in thought to really take notice. Jon said Sansa missed him. The idea that it might be true caused a curious swooping feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with how the ship was moving.

It was pleasant to think that Sansa might miss him; that she might genuinely pray for his safe return.

No one needed to know that he wanted to believe it. He could just... keep it to himself.

***

Visiting the Eyrie to recruit the men of the Vale to Robert’s cause was something Stannis had discussed with Ned at length before they had set sail. At first Ned had not seen the point of doing so, but Stannis insisted It was a logical thing to do. The Vale had taken no part in the war with the Lannisters and the men ought to be well rested and fit for the fight with the wildlings. A visit to the Eyrie would also serve the purpose of allowing Stannis to have a private word with Jon Arryn’s widow regarding her husband’s suspicious death. It was likely Catelyn Stark’s eagerness to see her sister, however, that eventually persuaded Ned that it would be a worthwhile stop along the way.

As it turned out, it was quite a fateful visit.

“You?” Stannis spluttered when he was escorted into the High Hall along with Lord and Lady Stark, Robb Stark, Ser Jon and several other young knights.

“Welcome,” Lord Baelish said, an infuriating smirk on his sly face.

“Petyr?” Catelyn said, sounding surprised but not displeased to see the odious man.

“Petyr is my husband now, Cat,” Lysa Arryn - or was it Lysa Baelish now? - piped up. Stannis scowled at the pale, redheaded woman who had stepped forward, standing next to her new husband proudly.

“Truly?” Catelyn said, her eyes widening and seeking Baelish out.

“Indeed, my lady,” Baelish said, inclining his head in a way that ought to have looked respectful, but coming from him somehow looked arrogant and mocking.

“You see how he loves me best?” Lysa gloated, a mad glint in her eyes, “you see how he came to me as soon as he could?”

Baelish touched Lysa’s arm and whispered something in her ear, causing Lysa’s lips to thin and her posture to stiffen.

“Congratulations to you both,” Ned Stark said solemnly, standing resolutely by his wife’s side and lending an impossible air of respectability to the proceedings. Robb and Jon both hung back, and though Stannis could tell the knights were ready to take up arms at a moment’s notice, they appeared at ease.

“Will you not congratulate us, my sweet sister?” Lysa asked sharply, moving her arm irritably so that Baelish was no longer touching her. Stannis was satisfied to see the brief look of annoyance her action caused in Littlefinger’s eyes.

“Of course I wish you both the very best,” Catelyn said soothingly, almost as if she were speaking to an upset child.

“As if I would believe that!” Lysa said shrilly, ignoring the warning looks Baelish was shooting her. “You want him for yourself, I see it in your eyes!”

“Lysa,” Catelyn said sharply, “I have a husband.”

“Cersei Lannister did not let that stop her,” Lysa sniffed. Baelish moved to touch her again, murmuring something in her ear. She relaxed by a small fraction, and Stannis wondered what Baelish had said.

“I suppose you have come to the Eyrie for some reason, my lords and lady?” Baelish said, having calmed his wife down.

“Indeed,” Stannis bit out, feeling disgusted by the display he had been witnessing. The fact that Baelish had married Lysa smacked of social climbing as the woman was no prize on her own. Lysa had never been quite right in the head, and Stannis had always regretted that he had not been able to foster her son as he and Jon Arryn had discussed. He wondered what the boy was like now that Lysa must have had years to coddle and spoil him without a father’s influence. 

“We have come to demand that the Vale send at least five thousand men to the Wall on King Robert’s orders,” Stannis said with the authority Robert had given him.

“Out of the question!” Lysa shrieked, Baelish apparently no longer able to keep her calm, “the men must stay here in the Vale to protect my son!”

“Be reasonable, Lysa,” Catelyn said imploringly, “we do not ask that you leave the Eyrie undefended. The Vale will still be protected by thousands of men.”

“Are you saying my son does not deserve protection?” Lysa demanded, a note of hysteria in her voice.

Catelyn and Ned exchanged significant looks, and Stannis met Jon’s eyes briefly. Lysa had clearly gone utterly mad since she had left King’s Landing.

“Petyr and I will do anything to protect my son,” Lysa insisted, sounding eerily calm now. Baelish was looking unnerved and he was attempting to murmur in his wife’s ear again, without much success. “... As we have already gone to great lengths to protect our love.”

Stannis took notice of that and stared at Baelish, trying to read his expression. What had Lysa meant? What great lengths? Baelish looked very irritated by his wife’s words which led Stannis to believe she was saying things Baelish did not wish said. For this very reason Stannis very much wanted her to keep speaking.

“Why don’t we see that our guests are given chambers to sleep in and allowed to rest before the evening meal is served?” Baelish said, his voice ringing loudly in the cavernous room.

“What great lengths did you go to, Lysa?” Catelyn asked anxiously, ignoring Baelish, “the letter you sent when Lord Arryn died said you suspected the Lannisters of killing him. Was that perhaps not the whole story?”

“My husband wanted to send my baby away from me,” Lysa said, still eerily calm, “he was standing in the way of our love,” she added, addressing Baelish.

“Lysa,” Baelish warned, no longer murmuring.

“Were you involved in Jon Arryn’s murder?” Stannis barked, taking a step forward and glaring at Lysa.

Baelish made a small noise that Stannis could not interpret, but he understood the way Baelish was looking at the nearest door. Stannis gave Jon a pointed look and the lad - as if he had read Stannis’ mind - went to block the exit, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Lysa started to laugh in a way that made Stannis’ blood start to run cold. It was not an amused laugh. It was hysterical and out of control, high and piercing.

Baelish went to her and tried to put his arms around her to smother the noise, but she would not have it.

“Open the Moon Door!” she screamed. The guardsmen that had up until then stayed hidden in the background marched forth and removed the heavy bronze bars that held the painted weirdwood door shut. The door opened inward and the noise of the wind was immediately the loudest sound in the High Hall. The guardsmen backed away, their blue cloaks stilling as they moved further away from the door. Stannis was pleased to note that his knights moved to subtly shadow the guardsmen, making ready for a fight.

“Confess!” Lysa screamed at him, “confess, Lord Stannis Baratheon, that you conspired with my late husband to take my baby from me!”

Stannis ground his teeth and glared at the hysterical woman. “Lord Arryn wished to foster your son Robert at Dragonstone. He would have been under my protection and no harm would have come to him.”

Lysa found this to be very amusing -- or at least worth laughing at in that horrible piercing way.

It was quite clear to Stannis that the madwoman had murdered Lord Arryn, and it seemed she was about to attempt to throw him out the Moon Door for the same ‘crime’ she had killed her husband for committing. Stannis knew that his knights outnumbered the guardsmen in the room, however, so he did not feel terribly threatened. All he felt was insulted and furious at Lysa for the atrocity of slaying her own husband. Jon Arryn had been a decent man, and Stannis had respected him for all he had done to keep the Seven Kingdoms running despite Robert’s efforts.

“Petyr, can’t you do something?” Catelyn pleaded, stepping forward and looking at her still-laughing sister with concern.

Baelish nodded at Catelyn and turned to Lysa. “Sweetling, do we really need the Moon Door to be open for this?” Baelish said to his wife, forced to speak up in order to be heard over the howling wind.

It seemed Baelish chose his words poorly. Lysa stopped laughing and looked _furious._ “You take orders from _her?_ ” she hissed, “you take her side?”

Baelish closed his eyes for a brief moment and opened them again, looking irritated and determined. “I love you, Lysa. _You._ ” But Baelish seemed unable to help glancing at Catelyn as he spoke, and he seemed very distracted by Lady Stark’s presence.

“DO NOT LIE!” Lysa screamed, “you have always loved her more than me!”

“No,” Baelish argued, “I married you, my sweet silly wife, didn’t I? Not her.”

“You still say her name!” Lysa said, sobbing suddenly, “you said her name when you took my maidenhead and you say it still in your sleep!”

Catelyn gasped, and looked at Baelish with wide blue eyes -- just like Sansa’s.

“That’s not true,” Baelish denied, but it was apparent that he was captivated by Catelyn’s shocked gaze, and even Stannis could tell that he was lying. Lysa saw it, too.

“LIAR!” she screamed, and to everyone’s great surprise, she suddenly threw her entire weight at him, lunging viciously in the direction of the abyss that gaped open before them.

Perhaps if Baelish had been expecting it he would have been able to brace himself and use his somewhat superior bulk and strength to prevent what followed, and perhaps if he had been a larger man Lysa would not have had the strength to shift him -- even by catching him off guard. But Baelish was not called Littlefinger for being a large man, and no one had expected Lysa to act in such a way towards the lord she had married and apparently loved.

There was nothing anyone could have done to stop it as it happened in the blink of an eye, and the shock of Lysa’s sudden leap had paralysed everyone in the hall.

Baelish and Lysa both fell through the open Moon Door, and their screams could be heard for what seemed an eternity before there was no sound in the High Hall but the howling of the wind.

Stannis stood just as frozen as the others, unable to comprehend what he had just seen. Lysa’s jealous rage had been fearsome enough without that murderous leap, but now that she and Baelish were cracked open on the ground below Stannis believed her hysterical fit to be one of the most disturbing things he had ever beheld. Was this where jealousy could lead? His heart seemed to miss a beat as he was struck by the uncomfortable thought that his own jealousy might destroy him just as it had Lysa. He hastened to push the thought away, scowling and telling himself that he was not _mad._ He would surely never become so consumed by his jealousy that he would resort to violence or murder.

His insides writhed uncomfortably when he realised that though he had not considered violence he _had_ considered locking his wife up in her chambers and threatening her… 

“Gods,” Catelyn said, bringing a tremulous hand to her mouth, the first of them to move or speak. His wife’s distress prompted Ned to take action next, and he moved to embrace Catelyn, stroking her back tenderly and whispering something Stannis could not hear in her ear.

“Close the door,” Stannis growled at the blue-cloaked guardsmen, daring them with a withering look to disobey and see what would happen if they did. Thankfully the two young men seemed relieved to shut the Moon Door and did so without needing to be prodded with swords.

“Send for Lord Nestor Royce,” Stannis demanded next, recalling the name of Jon Arryn’s high steward. One of the guardsmen scurried away to do his bidding, while the other hung back uncertainly. “Do you know where Lord Robert is?” Stannis asked him, referring to Jon Arryn’s heir. The guard nodded, still looking uncertain about his situation, but certain enough about his response. “Get him,” Stannis said curtly. With Lord Robert’s lady mother dead, and with Lord Baelish dead as well, they would need to sort out how the Vale was to be ruled until Lord Robert came of age. And the boy would need to be told of his mother’s death, in any case.

“Mother?” Robb Stark said, finding his voice and sounding hoarse and disturbed by all he had witnessed.

“Not now,” Ned Stark said sharply. Robb flinched but nodded. Jon walked over to his brother and stood next to him, lending his silent support. Robb shared a meaningful look with Jon and they both stood a little taller.

Seeing them stand together like that made Stannis long for Ser Davos. Did Ned Stark long for the support of King Robert? Was it odd that he, Stannis, did not wish for his brother’s presence? Perhaps it was, but Stannis knew that Davos would be the more useful man to have around in a stressful situation.

Before long, more guardsmen in blue cloaks were streaming into the High Hall, undoubtedly sent by the guards Stannis had ordered out of the hall to fetch Lord Nestor Royce and Lord Robert.

The guardsmen had their weapons ready but they did not seem about to strike, nor was there anyone in the hall with the authority to command them, so Stannis gestured quellingly at his own knights to make sure they did not draw their weapons, too.

Lord Robert arrived soon after, clutching at a doll in a considerable state of distress, but Catelyn managed to collect herself and gather the boy to her bosom, rocking him gently and speaking soothing words to calm him. They had to wait much longer for Lord Royce, but eventually he came, too.

The discussion that followed was long-winded and tiresome, and it took a while to convince everyone who had not been there to witness it that Lysa had done what she had done. In the end it was decided that Lord Royce would continue to act as High Steward of the Vale and Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, and would rule in Lord Robert’s name until he came of age. Catelyn decided to stay behind for a little while to take care of Lord Robert, as the boy became incoherent with rage and hysteria when told of his mother’s death and would not calm down for anyone except Catelyn. He clung to her as if she were his only port in a storm and she could not bear to part with the child.

“He needs me, Ned,” she had said, “he’s not strong enough to get through this on his own.”

Catelyn’s behaviour reminded Stannis of the words of House Tully: _Family, Duty, Honour._ For the first time he considered whether Sansa had inherited more than her look from her mother. Perhaps she was not filled with the rebellious Stark nature as he feared; perhaps she was just like Lady Catelyn? Devoted to family, duty and honour? Devoted to _him?_ His stomach filled with guilt at the idea. Had he been treating her with suspicion unjustly?

Lord Royce agreed to send five thousand men to the Wall, but said that it would take time to organise such a venture. It was decided that Lady Stark would go north with the army once the men were ready to march. Hopefully Lord Robert would be able to do without her by then.

When everything had been discussed and the details settled, it was very late. There was only time for a brief evening meal and then the guests were shown to comfortable chambers to sleep in. Stannis felt extremely relieved to retire, and despite his discomfiture at all he had seen that day and the uncomfortable thoughts the sights had inspired, he was asleep almost before his head met the pillow.

***

The events in the Vale caused the mood aboard the Fury to darken considerably as the journey north continued. Stannis did not really miss Lady Stark, but he noticed that Ned, Robb and Arya were all more subdued in her absence. Jon seemed less affected by her decision to stay behind in the Vale, but he, like Stannis, brooded over the looming war.

He wanted to answer Sansa’s letter and perhaps receive another one in return, but it would mean describing some of what had occurred in the Vale, and writing of it to King Robert had been quite enough. He decided to wait until he was safely arrived at his destination to write to her again.

Stannis and Ned had long ago determined that they would go to White Harbour where Ned, Robb, Arya and those who were headed for Winterfell would go ashore, and where Stannis might have access to supplies and perhaps more soldiers. Ned would then ride from White Harbour to Winterfell and get Robb settled as the temporary Lord of Winterfell before riding north to Wall to lend his aid in the war effort. Meanwhile, Stannis would stock up on supplies and sail from White Harbour to Eastwatch and go straight to Castle Black from there.

Stannis did not expect the surprise that awaited him in White Harbour: Black Betha in all her glory, carrying a heavy load of dragonglass, with Ser Davos himself at the helm. When Ned found out about the dragonglass he looked so relieved that Stannis started to feel more uneasy than ever about the white walker threat. He put his unease aside to greet his old friend, however, and managed not to think too much about it as they caught each other up on everything important that had happened since their last meeting.

The sky was pitch black outside when Davos brought the subject around to Sansa.

“How is the new Lady of Storm’s End faring?”

Stannis felt himself tense up at the question. “She was well when I left,” he answered stiffly.

“Is she like Lady Selyse?” Davos asked, tilting his head to the side curiously.

Stannis made a derisive sound. “No.”

“Oh?”

Stannis clenched his jaw and considered his curious friend for a moment, deciding whether to speak to Davos of his complicated feelings for Sansa.

“She is… she is very beautiful,” he began hesitantly, glancing at Davos to gauge his reaction. Davos only nodded encouragingly and Stannis cleared his throat. “She was very quick to accept my - er - attentions,” he continued slowly, “and was eager to do her duty.” At this point Stannis could feel his face heat up slightly, and he avoided eye contact with his friend.

“Well, that’s excellent news, my lord,” Davos said easily, “it does not sound as if she hates you at all.”

Stannis stared down at his hands and grunted to signal that he had heard Davos.

“I am left wondering why you don’t seem entirely happy about this,” his friend said, sounding bemused.

“She is young,” Stannis bit out, still avoiding Davos’ eyes, “and I cannot satisfy her while I am fighting Robert’s war. I… I fear she will find others to satisfy her instead.” Voicing this fear to Davos felt much more serious than confessing it to Jon or speaking of his concerns with Septa Mordane, and he continued to stare resolutely down at his hands as he waited for Davos to respond.

“My lord, has she done anything to suggest she might betray you? Has she been disobedient when it comes to other matters?” Davos asked sensibly, his voice calm.

“No,” Stannis muttered, “she spends gold on frivolous things like harpists, fine silk and Myrish lace, but otherwise she has behaved very acceptably.”

“And she came to you a maiden?”

“Yes, of course!” He would hardly have taken her with him to Storm’s End if he had found her to be ruined.

“Despite this you mistrust her?” Davos asked, his tone betraying a hint of admonition.

Stannis looked up, meeting Davos’ gaze and crossing his arms in front of his chest. Davos was looking at him with a mild expression that did not give much away.

“I don’t know,” Stannis said, feeling frustrated.

“With respect, my lord, I think you are being foolish,” Davos said firmly, “you have been given a beautiful wife that enjoys your attentions and is eager to produce an heir for you,” he went on, “and you are searching for faults instead of counting your blessings.”

Stannis scowled at Davos for calling him foolish, angry at having his legitimate concerns dismissed in such a way. “I can cut more than a few finger joints off, Onion Knight,” he threatened.

“Of course, my lord, if that is what you feel is just.”

Stannis glared at Davos. Calling your lord foolish was hardly against the law, though it was intolerably rude.

“Why don’t you try to look at the issue reasonably,” Davos suggested after a long silence, “what has your wife done that indicates she might betray you, and what has she done to indicate that she is unlikely to?”

Stannis furrowed his brow, thinking it over. Sansa had not really done anything at all to indicate that she might stray. But she was eager for his touch and for - he reddened slightly as he thought it - his cock. She had suggested they try new things when they were together as man and wife and had enjoyed being taken in rather a disrespectful way. She had even demeaned herself by taking his cock into her mouth on more than one occasion. Stannis was certain that he was not incorrect to think that Sansa exhibited wanton behaviour and it was difficult to think that she would simply stop being wanton without him there to satisfy her.

Sansa had, however, come to him a maiden, and he had never seen her exhibit a preference for any man other than himself. For all his concern regarding Edric Storm he did not think he had seen Sansa have a single conversation that lasted more than a few minutes with the boy. She liked to go on walks with Jon sometimes, and Bran, too, apparently, but they were her brothers and Sansa was hardly a Targaryen… or a Lannister. She had written that her bed was cold without him, which meant it was unlikely that it was being warmed by another...

Jon thought she missed him.

“Well?” Davos prompted, once Stannis had considered the matter for a while.

Stannis could not really make up his mind one way or the other. He could not know what Sansa was thinking, and he could not know whether she would desire another man’s touch while he was away. But he did know that he had asked Septa Mordane to make sure she was never alone with a man, which ought to make it difficult for Sansa to betray him even if she wanted to. After what he had seen in the Vale he felt less certain that asking the septa to watch Sansa had been the right choice. Did it not betray the mistrust and jealousy in his heart? Could the septa be trusted to keep the fact that he had ordered her to keep Sansa away from other men to herself? What would Sansa think of him if she found out?

He heaved a great sigh and shook his head. “Let us say no more about it, Onion Knight.”

“As you wish, my lord.”


	18. The Wall

_Lady Sansa,_

_I have arrived safely at Castle Black. Ser Jon is with me and asks me to send you his regards. I expect your lord father, your brother Robb, and your sister will have made it to Winterfell by now. Your lady mother has been delayed in the Vale. She is there to take care of your cousin, Lord Robert Arryn, who was recently orphaned. Your Aunt Lysa fell out the Moon Door of the High Hall of the Eyrie, taking Lord Baelish - her new husband - with her. Perhaps you should ask Lady Stark for the details._

_I have enclosed letters for Shireen and Ser Cortnay. See that they receive them._

_If your chambers are still cold at night you have my permission to order additional kindling to be burnt. I have told Ser Cortnay to allow the expense._

_I trust you are in good health._

_Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm’s End and Dragonstone_

Stannis read over his finished letter and felt somewhat satisfied with it. He had wanted to ask straight out whether Sansa was with child or not - according to his calculations it should be possible by now to predict whether she was - but he thought better of it. She would surely think to tell him such important news, and if she was not with child he would rather not speak of the matter at all.

His comment about the kindling was deliberately designed to prompt Sansa to confirm whether she was still feeling cold at night or not. He found himself hoping that she would write and say that she was still very cold and maybe even that she missed him. It was a foolish hope, but he could not deny that it was there. He was desperate for some indication that she was loyal to him and was not seeking to replace him with some stable boy or _Edric Storm._ Stannis had seriously considered asking Davos to sail Black Betha to Storm’s End and take Edric with him to Dragonstone so that Stannis would no longer have to grind his teeth every time he thought of the handsome young youth residing within easy reach of his wife. But then he had remembered Lysa’s jealous rage and Davos’ advice and it had made him hold his tongue.  


Besides, Shireen was also very attached to Edric -- it would be cruel to remove one of her few friends. She had already lost her mother, and might easily lose _him,_ too. 

It had been relatively easy to put Shireen’s grief for her mother from his mind when he had been at Storm’s End, but now Stannis wondered if he should not have tried to speak to his daughter about it. When he had told her he would be leaving for war she had looked stricken, and even more upset than Sansa had, and Stannis had fallen back on speaking of practical matters in an attempt to keep Shireen from becoming emotional. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

Mere days after he sent his letter to Storm’s End, a raven arrived from Winterfell.

Maester Aemon personally handed him a roll of paper with the Stark seal, but did not linger to find out whether Stannis would need to send a swift reply.

Stannis quickly found that he had two letters in his hands, one from Ned Stark and the other written in Sansa’s pretty hand. He read Ned’s letter first as it was shorter and appeared more recent.

_Lord Stannis,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_The journey from White Harbour to Winterfell was not too arduous, though we lost one horse on the way. Robb and Arya are both hale and send their regards._

_Upon my arrival Maester Luwin delivered onto me letters from Lady Sansa. One of them was addressed to you, and I have enclosed it as it most likely contains news that will be of interest to you. Congratulations._

_Give my regards to Ser Jon and know that I intend to join you at Castle Black before long._

_Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North_

Stannis hurried to unfurl Sansa’s letter, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. The congratulations from Ned made him suspect what news her letter might contain, though he did not quite dare to hope.

_My lord husband,_

_I write to you in the hope that the raven will reach you at Winterfell as I have happy news to share. Maester Pylos and Maester Cressen have both confirmed that I am most likely with child. It is not completely apparent as of yet how far along I am, but Maester Cressen estimates that I have been carrying for a little less than two months._

_I confess that I suspected I was with child while my family was visiting Storm’s End, but I did not want to raise any hopes before a maester had confirmed my suspicions. Maester Cressen has assured me that he is very experienced when it comes to delivering babies and I feel I am in good hands with him._

_I have started to visit the sept every day to pray to the Warrior and the Mother, and I frequently walk in the godswood to sit by the heart tree, too. I pray that the war at the Wall will be of short duration and that the Warrior takes our side. I pray that the Mother will bless me with a son and that I will deliver the baby successfully, without suffering illness or injury._

_Septa Mordane has been very kind and attentive and often accompanies me when I pray. I think she understands how I dislike being alone and I am so grateful for her presence._

_Jeyne, Bran and Rickon have been a comfort to me, too, and I am also so very grateful for their company. Nymeria pines for Arya, though she feels better when she is with Lady, Summer and Shaggydog. She has taken to following Shaggydog around, but unfortunately she does not really listen to Rickon’s commands and refuses to be bathed. The kennelmaster is quite at his wit’s end._

_I hope you are pleased with the news and I hope you will write and tell me what I am to name the baby soon._

_Perhaps the gods will be kind enough to return you to my side before the baby comes._

_I hope so._

_Yours,_  
_Lady Sansa Baratheon of Storm’s End_

Stannis smiled in a way he had not smiled since he found out that Storm’s End would actually become his. Sansa was with _child._ Perhaps she even carried a son? Was he to be so fortunate at last? Catelyn Stark had welcomed Ned Stark back from war with a healthy heir, would it not be rather poetic if her daughter did the same thing for him? 

_If he survived the war..._

The old fear that he might have sired a child he would never meet returned to him, causing his chest to constrict and making it difficult for him to breathe. Would he ever see Sansa care for a child of their making as he had seen her care for her youngest brother? Would he ever be able to hold the babe? Stannis had to take several steadying breaths to calm himself, but his next thought did nothing to ease his mind. 

Why had Sansa not shared her suspicions with him as soon as they had arisen?

He would have wanted to know as soon as Sansa thought it might be possible, even if it had meant suffering disappointment later. Stannis was no stranger to disappointment, after all, but he seldom received news that made him truly happy. The hope of a _son_ would have been worth the potential disappointment.

But if he had known she might be pregnant, would he have been able to stay away from her bed?

The question caused some very difficult and contradictory feelings to rise to the surface, and Stannis did not know what to do with them.

Some quick mental arithmetic left him thinking that Sansa might very well have fallen pregnant shortly after their arrival at Storm’s End, and this thought caused his annoyance and his confused jumble of feelings to fade to the background due to a powerful influx of smugness. 

Perhaps he had managed to best Robert after all?

He allowed himself a brief moment to revel in the gratifying idea before scolding himself for being childish and returning his attention to Sansa’s letter.

It was good to read that Sansa was spending much of her time in the sept or with her brothers as it spoke of Septa Mordane’s influence and meant that Sansa was very unlikely to be spending any time around comely young men. He very much doubted any of the men left behind in the castle would have the _gall_ to approach the pregnant lady of the keep, but if they did, the opportunities would be few. And then there were always the direwolves to consider. They were sure to act as a deterrent.

His wife was well protected. 

Stannis almost postponed the meeting he had been headed for with the Commander of the Night’s Watch in order to pen a new letter to Sansa, but at the last moment he decided to go to the meeting first. He did not know which name to suggest for a girl, and he could not assume the child would be a boy.

When he did eventually decide on a name it was quite late, but he decided to write the letter despite the time.

_Lady Sansa,_

_I have received the letter you sent to Winterfell and I am very well pleased with the news. Do everything Maester Cressen instructs you to do and try not to exert yourself unnecessarily._

_Name the child Steffon if you bear a son and Jocelyn if you bear a daughter._

_If it happens again at some point in the future that you find yourself suspecting you might be pregnant with my child, I expect you to tell me **immediately.**_

_Ser Jon sends his congratulations to you and his regards to your brothers._

_Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm’s End and Dragonstone_

He had long ago decided to name his firstborn son after his father, but had not given a name for a second daughter much thought. Jocelyn was a Baratheon name, and he seemed to recall that Sansa preferred the name Jonquil due to her love for the story of Florian and Jonquil. Perhaps Jocelyn was similar enough to be to his wife’s liking…

A fortnight went by before Stannis received a raven from Storm’s End, but to Stannis it seemed an entire moon’s turn had passed. His work at the Wall was not easy, but it was tedious and each day dragged by. Still, it was better to suffer tedium and remain safe than it was to charge through a battlefield; bruised, bleeding and cherishing each second of life. Miserable memories of Great Wyk stirred in his mind, but he pushed them away, feeling vaguely nauseated.

_My lord husband,_

_I received both your letters and I am glad to know that you have been given the news. It made me ever so happy to learn that you are pleased. I promise I will keep you informed of any and all developments, and I am sorry if you did not like that I did not share my suspicions with you at once. I did so very much want to, but I was afraid to raise false hope. It is only my first time being pregnant after all, and I did not quite trust myself. I still do not really understand everything that is happening to me, and I am grateful to have access to the wealth of experience Maester Cressen has amassed over the years. Maester Pylos has been most helpful, too. (It was he who made sure I was not sick every morning the fortnight before you left. He gave me a marvellous tincture.)_

_I love the names you chose, and I hope I am carrying a little Steffon. Though if I do have a son I must insist that you return from the war to give me a daughter. I love the idea of a baby Jocelyn - what a perfectly sweet name!_

_Do not worry about the kindling in my room. I know you will disapprove, but Lady has taken to warming me at night, and I fear you will have to do battle with her if you wish to share my bed upon your return. Perhaps it will be best if I simply come to your bed when you do. Lady can stretch out on her own, then._

_I was shocked to hear the story of what occurred in the Vale, but I am glad that my aunt did not manage to do more damage than she did. I fear she must have been terribly ill to behave in such a way. Poor Lord Baelish to have married her! He must not have known how ill she was. Mother tells me Lysa never used to act in such a horrid way when they were girls together at Riverrun, and she told me that Lord Baelish used to be such a sweet boy, too. How terrible to meet the Stranger thusly!_

_Mother thinks Cousin Robert will recover if good care is taken of him. I believe he is in the best of hands with my lady mother, and I am certain that he will be doing much better before long._

_Enclosed are letters from Shireen, Maester Cressen and Ser Cortnay._

_I pray for your safe return from the war every day, just as I pray for my family, for the baby inside me, and for the baby Queen Margaery carries._

_Yours,_  
_Lady Sansa Baratheon_

Stannis did not need Jon’s help to interpret Sansa’s meaning this time. It was obvious that she was happy to be with child and eager to deliver a healthy baby. She even seemed eager for his return, and Stannis could not help but feel satisfied to learn that Lady was guarding his place in Sansa’s bed. His wife’s excitement and hopeful enthusiasm regarding the pregnancy seemed genuine, and Stannis desperately hoped for Sansa’s sake, for the sake of the baby, and for his own sake, that she would have a safe, successful pregnancy. 

He recalled that Selyse had been hopeful just like Sansa the first time she had conceived, confident that she would deliver an heir and fulfill her duty to him. It had been difficult for her when she had bled and he had perhaps not been as supportive as he should have been. He had been fearful that her failure to carry the baby to term had somehow been his fault; that he had planted defective seed. When Shireen had finally come along she had put that particular worry to rest. For the most part.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It had been a long time since he had dredged up these particular memories, and he was surprised to find how much they still stung. One would have thought all the years that had passed would have dulled the ache…

The old concern that his seed was defective returned to him now, and he felt numb and cold as he considered that Sansa might start the whole process over again. What if she bled? What if he returned from the war only to inflict one failed pregnancy after another on her? Suddenly it was as if there was not enough air in his modest chambers. What if Shireen had been blind luck? What if Shireen was the only child he would ever father?

Stannis got up unsteadily and started to pace, trying to regulate his breathing but having little success.

It was not uncommon for women to suffer greatly in the birthing bed, he knew, and it was a distinct possibility that neither Sansa nor the child would survive the pregnancy. Selyse had certainly not survived her last one.

Stannis collapsed into one of two chairs in the room and bent forward with his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. It would be a cruel fate if he were to survive the war but Sansa did not live through the ordeal of bringing his child into the world. She did not deserve to die at her tender age.

The thought of never seeing Sansa again was more painful than he would have expected after such a short marriage, and he wondered whether he had become soft and sentimental in his old age. If Robert found out about this he would mock him relentlessly. He had to harden himself. Had to prepare for the worst and make certain the news, if they came, would not destroy his ability to lead his men.

He could not afford to lose his head.

***

Stannis had not been obliged to go north of the Wall up until now. He had been tired of relying on secondhand reports, and he needed to understand the current lay of the land in order to form effective strategy. The wildlings had trampled through the woods near the Wall and burnt some of it down. It was essential to know where cover could reliably be found, and to gather intelligence about the current state of the wildling army. Mormont had not been pleased with Stannis’ insistence on leading his own mission, but Stannis got his way.

Ser Jon and Ghost were both with him, and Stannis felt safe enough in their company. Not much got past the direwolf, and it was a rare creature that dared attack one. Stannis had taken a few other knights from Storm’s End, but it was a small mission, and discretion was more important than brute force.

The day had been a success, and Stannis told his men that they would make camp and return to Castle Black at first light. It had not been difficult to find the wildling army, but it had been a challenge to get near enough to gather proper intelligence without being killed. Ghost had proved his worth time and time again, and the strange bond Jon seemed to have with the wolf had been very useful.

Stannis was looking over the maps he had drawn of the area and comparing them with some older ones when he heard Ghost start growling. Stannis was still fully dressed inside his tent, so he only needed to strap on his sword belt and make his way outside. The men were all standing still, clearly on high alert, and some had drawn their weapons. Stannis looked towards Jon. Had Ghost spotted a wildling?

“There’s something there,” Jon said quietly, making his way over to Stannis. It was as if Jon were attempting to smell something by the way he was inhaling the cold night air, but Stannis knew better than to comment on the strange behaviour. “It’s not human,” Jon added hoarsely.

Knowing that should have made Stannis feel better, not worse.

“Get the dragonglass.” Jon sounded deadly serious and Stannis heard Ser William move to do as Jon bid. 

Stannis should have felt more stupid than he did, clutching a sharp black rock instead of a sword, but he trusted Jon and if Jon said the threat was not human Stannis believed him.

There was no noise as the figure emerged from between the trees. No branches moved or brushed up against it, no twigs snapped beneath its feet, nor did the snow crunch. It was tall, pale and frighteningly beautiful with its startling blue eyes, and the men around him could hardly be heard to breathe as they took in the sight before them. Stannis felt the blood drain from his face as Ghost continued to growl at the approaching figure.

Stannis recalled the stories he had been told of the wights the Others controlled and he stared at the dark shadows the trees cast, his heart pounding as he searched for the undead creatures. He could not see anything, but that did not mean the wights were not there. Would he be joining their ranks? The thought chilled him to the bone more effectively than the freezing temperature and the snow, and he felt more afraid than he had felt since he had been forced to consider eating his dead.

He gripped the dragonglass more tightly and thought it was rather poetic that just as Davos and his onions had saved him when last he had been in dire need of rescue, Davos had been the one to deliver what was hopefully an effective weapon against this evil.

The figure made a gesture at Jon that seemed incomprehensible to Stannis, but Jon’s lips parted in surprise. Another gesture and Jon’s face seemed to harden.

After that the quiet clearing exploded with sound. Jon and Ghost both sprang forth to attack the creature as one, with Stannis and the other knights moving to join the fight a heartbeat later. It was short fight, but a brutal one. Ghost leapt for the creature’s throat only to be swatted aside like an irksome fly. Jon’s attack was more successful, though his dragonglass weapon missed its mark, piercing the flank of the creature instead of the centre of its chest. Ser William and Ser Deran took blows before they were able to sink their shards of dragonglass into the creature, but Stannis saw that Jon was ideally positioned to strike again and took a risk at precisely the right moment. He threw Jon his own dragonglass piece and Jon caught it deftly, plunging it into the creature’s chest and causing it to perish at once.

Stannis and his men were left breathing heavily and hardly believing what they had just witnessed.

“Ser William, Ser Deran,” Stannis said at length, “are you hurt?”

The two men were lying on the ground, but they did not appear to be bleeding. Ghost had already stood up from where had had collapsed and padded silently over to Jon, so Stannis was not worried about the wolf.

“Fine, my lord,” Ser William said shakily, “I’ll likely have a nasty bruise, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“Same here, my lord,” Ser Deran said, groaning a little as he sat up, “though I might have a cracked rib.”

Ser Niclas, who was unharmed, rushed to assist the two bruised knights.

“We will take turns keeping watch,” Stannis declared once the injured men had been brought inside their tent. “Ser Jon and I will take the first one. Try to get some rest.”

Stannis and Jon did not speak until the camp fell silent and Stannis felt reasonably certain his knights were asleep. “Did you understand that creature?” Stannis asked then, keeping his voice quiet.

“It did not say anything,” Jon said evasively, adding a few dry branches to their fire.

“Speak the truth, Jon Snow,” Stannis demanded icily.

Jon frowned and stared at the way the flames licked the fresh kindling. “I’m not entirely certain, but I think it was... interested in me.”

Stannis stared at Jon in confusion. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

***

Stannis’ first encounter with a white walker wiped most of his concerns for Sansa and the baby clean from his mind. If it had not been for Davos’ shipment of dragonglass it was quite possible that Stannis would now be fighting for the other side: an undead abomination. All Stannis cared about now was protecting the Seven Kingdoms from this grave threat. It would not matter if Sansa lived through her pregnancy if he failed to prevent the white walkers marching south.

Upon his return to Castle Black, he sought Ned Stark and pulled him aside.

“They are real,” he hissed, his face pale. He felt as if he would be pale for the rest of his life.

“You encountered the Others?” Ned was instantly alert and tense, his deep worry apparent in his tone.

“The dragonglass worked,” Stannis continued, not bothering to answer Ned’s question. Ned knew the answer. Stannis was busy deciding whether he ought to tell Ned how the white walker had appeared to be especially interested in Jon.

Ned heaved a great sigh and gave Stannis a mournful look. “Are you ready to reconsider the battle plans, then?”

“There is no other choice,” Stannis growled, still attempting to make up his mind about Jon.

“I will set up a meeting with Mormont,” Ned said, nodding grimly.

Just as Ned was turning to leave, Stannis came to a decision. “You should talk to your son,” he said, frowning deeply, “the white walker behaved strangely towards him.”

Ned stiffened but nodded slowly.

***

Stannis did not find out whether Ned and Jon ever discussed the white walker’s apparent interest in Jon, though he suspected they had discussed _something._ Jon had been pale and drawn for an entire fortnight, brooding over a matter he refused to discuss with Stannis. He had not been able to dwell on the young knight’s behaviour, however, as there had been many meetings to attend and many plans and strategies to alter.

“Perhaps we should not be fighting the wildlings at all, my lord,” Jon said one night, after Stannis had spent a full day arguing military strategy with obstinate men that refused to believe the truth. Stannis had been venting his frustration at Jon for the past hour and did not really feel much better for it. “They are at least human,” Jon added.

Stannis grunted and imagined what Ser Alliser Thorne and his ilk would say to that.

“If what we have learnt of the Others is true, they kill people and raise them as wights. Should we really be fighting the wildlings north of the wall where the white walkers will be able to turn their corpses into wights and use them to strengthen their undead army?” Jon asked, his brow furrowed. 

“We cannot stop fighting the wildlings,” Stannis retorted, “the wildlings will not stop attacking the Wall with the threat of the Others looming over them.”

“Well, what if we were to let them through?” Jon suggested with his eyebrows raised.

“Let them through?” Stannis scoffed, “and where do you suggest we tell them to go once they’re south of the Wall?”

Jon frowned and looked thoughtful for a moment. “The Gift?”

“The smallfolk will revolt if wildlings are allowed to march south and given valuable land that has long been uninhabited because of wildling raids,” Stannis snapped irritably. “It will seem to them that the Watch and the royal army will have failed to do its duty. It will seem as if the wildlings have won and are being given everything they desire.”

“My lord, if the choice is to let the wildlings through or waste time, energy and countless lives trying to hold them back only to end up fighting them all over again when they return as wights, I know which choice I would make,” Jon argued stubbornly.

The lad had a point, but Stannis did not see how it would be possible to convince anyone who had not personally faced a white walker of the merit of Jon’s idea. He recalled how it had been difficult for himself to believe the stories, thinking that nothing could be quite so abhorrent and evil. But now he knew what it was to fear the Others. The icy, hair-raising terror of watching the white walker approach in that eerie silence would not soon leave his memory, and the knowledge that these _demons_ could not only kill you, but raise you up to join them as some sort of an undead atrocity was truly blood-curdling.

Stannis sighed. “The wildlings would need to be reasoned with. They would need to kneel if they wished to live south of the wall. They could not be allowed to raid and pillage their way south, destroying everything in their path.”

“So we reason with them,” Jon said, standing up to pace around Stannis’ chambers in agitation, “they must be able to understand that if we allow them south of the wall they must follow the rules same as everyone else. I’m certain most of them would rather kneel to King Robert than be turned into a wight.”

“Even if someone were to reason with the wildlings it would be difficult to convince the men of the Night’s Watch and the inhabitants south of the Wall to tolerate this plan of yours. You forget that many are still struggling to believe that the Others even exist,” Stannis said from his chair, following Jon’s progress around his sparse chambers with his eyes.

Jon made a frustrated noise and returned to his seat, burying his head in his hands.

“However, that will likely change as the Others grow their army and become bolder in their attacks,” Stannis added darkly.

Jon looked up and met Stannis’ eyes, his worry and despair apparent.

They were silent for a long while after that.

***

Stannis watched with a frown as Ned Stark spoke seriously with a young squire. Ned was holding himself very stiffly, and to Stannis it almost seemed as if the air was somehow colder where Ned stood. The squire in question was quite familiar, though Stannis was having a hard time recalling where he had seen his face before.

Jon suddenly appeared at Stannis’ side, seemingly out of nowhere. Ghost was following silently in the knight’s wake, undoubtedly pleased that his master had returned after several weeks of absence.

“What is Arya doing here?” Jon asked, sounding upset and bewildered.

Stannis recognised the familiar squire at once now that Jon had named his sister.

 _Foolish girl,_ Stannis thought, furrowing his brow in irritation, _what does she mean by coming to the Wall?_

Ned finished saying whatever it was that he had been saying to Arya and stalked off, looking none too pleased.

Stannis watched as Jon hurried over to his sister and observed as they spoke to one another. Stannis had observed them together before and knew them to have a very easy rapport. Presently, Jon looked much too angry to smile at her the way he usually did, and Arya looked defiant, her mouth set into a stubborn line.

When Jon had stalked off, precisely the way his father had, Stannis continued to watch the girl. She was squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, apparently preparing to take on the world. It was tempting to let her try her hand at doing just that, but for Sansa’s sake Stannis decided to talk to her. His wife would most likely be very upset if something terrible befell her sister. Ned and Jon were honourable men, strong fighters and good soldiers. They were, however, unlikely to have delivered any sensible warnings to the girl, and it did not appear as if they had managed to convince her to go back to Winterfell.

It only took a few long strides to reach Arya. “I assume you are here to act as your father’s squire?” he asked dryly.

The girl looked surprised at his address, but recovered her bearing quickly. “Jon’s, actually. Father already has a squire.”

“Listen closely,” Stannis said, staring intently into the girl’s eyes, “you were grievously foolish to come here, but as you are not my responsibility I will not attempt to send you back to Winterfell as your father should have.”

Arya stared insolently back at him, and clenched her jaw at his words. She seemed to be intelligent enough to keep from talking back, however.

“I will say that you are an ungrateful, irresponsible little brat, however, and that if you were my get I would have you flogged for the anguish you have surely put your family through by stealing away to come here.”

Arya looked outraged at that and started to speak with a fierce passion, gesturing wildly with her hands as she did. “I couldn’t just sit at home with Robb and listen to stories about how horrible things are getting at the Wall. I felt just as useless as I would have felt sitting in Storm’s End with Sansa! I want to help win this war! I can be useful, I swear it. I know how to do all sorts of things! I can make arrows, and run messages, and, and - no one will know I’m a girl! I pretended to be a boy on the Fury for days and no one would have recognised me if it weren’t for Jon and Ghost. I can dress wounds, too, and -“ 

Stannis glared at her until she stopped talking. She cut herself off, but she looked furious about it. He did not care about her childish anger, however. He was not finished.

“Do you understand what the consequences of your presence here might be?” he asked her sharply, “do you realise that you are endangering both your father and Jon?”

Arya looked annoyed and confused at that. “I told you, I’m here to help them!”

“Be that as it may, you could easily be more of a hindrance than a help. Your father and brother might very well seek to protect you and see to your safety at the cost of their own.”

The girl went a little pale, but she was still looking infuriatingly stubborn. “I can take care of myself,” she insisted, “Father hired a water dancer from Braavos to teach me the sword when we were in King’s Landing.”

Stannis was unimpressed. “You spent four months learning how to play with a sword and now you’re ready to fight a war?” he asked derisively, “I will make certain the Others are notified. I’m sure they will want to organise a retreat.”

Arya glared at him and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“As I said, I cannot send you away if your father had permitted you to stay, but I wish to warn you…” Stannis trailed off, wondering how to phrase what he wanted to say.

“Yes?” the girl said, insolence pouring from her every pore.

“Stay near your father, Jon or myself at all times. Do not sleep unless Jon or Ghost are near. Keep a knife about your person when you do sleep. Half the men of the Night’s Watch are rapers.”

“They won’t know I’m a girl,” Arya protested, still glaring at him.

“Do you think only girls get raped?” Stannis hissed, using his superior height to loom threateningly over her.

She blanched at that, dropped her arms and blinked up at him uncertainly. The insolence was gone.

Stannis sighed. He could appreciate Arya’s desire to make herself useful, and he knew women to be just as competent as men in times of trouble. During the siege of Storm’s End Stannis had learnt to value all functioning pairs of hands, and if Arya had been trained by a water dancer she might actually be far from useless.

“Please,” Arya implored, looking at him with a much more subdued expression than he had ever seen her wear, “I’m rubbish at embroidery, I can’t sing, and I look all wrong in a dress. I’ll never be a perfect lady like Sansa, but I can do _this._ I can help!”

There was a desperation and a bitterness in Arya’s voice that struck a chord with Stannis. The girl wanted to help her family. There was duty in that, and honour. He could understand that desire quite well. Her clear feelings of inadequacy when she compared herself to her sister were uncomfortably familiar, too.

Seven _hells._

“Go,” he snapped, “report to the armoury and have them kit you out. You will need a light sword, and you will need a good helmet. Once that is done you will find Jon and you will be the best, most obedient squire in the castle. Jon was a decent squire himself, so he ought to be able to teach you. Listen to him and do everything he says.”

Arya was looking at him with an expression of mixed hope and disbelief. “Really? I mean, yes. My lord.”

It sounded to Stannis as if she had nearly forgotten to address him properly, only adding the ‘my lord’ as an afterthought, but it did not much matter to him. She had not been addressing him properly for the whole of their conversation, nor he her.

“Be vigilant,” he warned again, giving her a hard look, “and be damn sure that you’re alone when you’re obliged to make water or remove your clothes.”

“Yes, my lord,” Arya said quickly. Stannis observed that she did not blush at his words, and decided it was a good sign. As a squire surrounded by soldiers and hardened veterans of the Night’s Watch she would be exposed to crass conversations on a daily basis. Blushing like her sister most likely would were Sansa in her place would not help her keep from being noticed.

“Off you go,” he said at length, having had his fill of observing her.

Arya did not set off at a run like he expected her to. Instead she gazed up at him for a long moment before turning slowly to leave.

Stannis did not know what she meant by it, but he hoped she had listened to his advice. She would heed him if she had any sense.

***

_My lord husband,_

_I know you are fighting a war and that it must be dreadful, but you really are quite lucky to be so far away now that I am growing big and round with child. Maester Cressen says it is quite normal for my belly to swell in such a way, but I’m not sure I believe him. I don’t think my mother was ever this big when she carried my sister and brothers, though of course I barely remember my sister being born. Not only have I grown huge, but I fear my mood has been adversely affected. I am constantly either terribly upset, on the verge of tears, or in a towering temper! Only yesterday I snapped at Rickon very meanly because Shaggydog was quite filling up a corridor I wished to pass through._

_Jeyne thinks I must surely be about to give birth at any moment as I have grown so large, but Maester Cressen says I will have to wait a little longer. He is very pleased with how I have been progressing, and says everything seems to be in good order. Maester Pylos agrees, though he is a terrible bore and constantly tells me I should eat more fresh green vegetables and less lemon cake._

_Septa Mordane has been doting on me ever since you left, and I often feel I am back at Winterfell when she sits with Jeyne and me as we sew and embroider blankets and sweet little clothes for the baby. Shireen sometimes sits with us too, though she does not like to embroider, and quite often she reads out loud from her books for us. The baby likes it when she reads and usually starts to kick very enthusiastically as soon as it hears her voice. Maybe the baby knows she is its sister? It is the oddest sensation in the world when it kicks, but I would not give it up for anything as it means that the baby is healthy and happy._

_I hope you don’t mind that I ordered some fabric again, as I will need new gowns when I finally shrink back to a normal size, and the baby will need clothes, too. Most of the fabric I ordered last time has been used to make tents for me to wear in my current state._

_I have also taken the liberty of ordering for the nursery to be refurbished. Some of the furniture in there is really so old and I know you will agree that our child will need to be surrounded by sturdy, safe, and well made things. I will have the old things stored in case they hold some sentimental value._

_Please send my regards to my lord father, Ser Jon and Ghost and let them know I am praying for you all every day. Shireen, Bran and Rickon all send their regards as well._

_Yours,_  
_Lady Sansa Baratheon_

Stannis was re-reading Sansa’s latest letter in bed by candle light in a futile attempt to distract himself from thinking about what the next day would bring. It was hard to fall asleep when the following morning would be spent letting the wildlings he had been sent to do battle with march south unhindered. It had taken months to reason with the men of the Night’s Watch and the wildlings, and Jon had risked his life to spend several weeks among the free folk, pretending to be a turncloak to learn their ways.

The letter had arrived a few days ago, but Stannis had yet to reply.

In a vain attempt to lull himself to sleep he started to think about what he wanted to write back to her. He couldn’t tell her anything about the war as such information was much too important to be carried across Westeros by a raven that might easily be intercepted, but he might tell her that Ned, Jon and Ghost were hale and healthy. She would like to know that. He would not tell her how Jon had nearly got himself slain by going among the enemy, however. It was very doubtful that such information would be of any use or benefit to her. She would _definitely_ not benefit from reading about the growing number of white walkers and wights, and he doubted she would enjoy reading about the routine of life at Castle Black. It was rather a grim and unpleasant routine, after all, and Sansa always seemed to write about bright and cheerful things.

He wondered if he should tell her about the fact that her sister had arrived at the Wall shortly after Jon had returned from his mission with the wildlings, but decided against it. Her father would surely inform her of it if he felt Sansa needed to be made aware.

Stannis did not envy Ned the job of keeping Arya under some semblance of control and wondered if he wished his second daughter was more like the first. Stannis was certain that if Arya had been the elder, and he had ended up married to _her,_ he would not have been best pleased. Sansa was everything a highborn lady should be, and Stannis was quite relieved she did not display the wild tendencies of her younger sister. As much as he appreciated Arya’s desire to help and protect her family, he did not think she had chosen the best way to go about it. A proper lady would have stayed in the south with Sansa and given her father and brothers the peace of mind that came with knowing their kin was _safe._

The fact that Sansa and the baby she carried were far away from the battles being fought at the Wall was a comfort that Stannis should not like to do without.

Her descriptions of her growing belly, her upset moods and the way the baby kicked made him wish that he could sail south to see her. He remembered when his mother had carried Renly and if he was sure Lady Cassana had complained about her size and her ill-fitting gowns, too. She had sometimes allowed Stannis to touch her round belly and feel Renly’s kicks, and to Stannis it had seemed almost miraculous. His very few fond memories of Selyse also featured his wife allowing him the same liberty when she had carried their babes. He had felt terribly awkward, but it had been worth a little discomfort to be allowed to feel the movements of a living child he had helped to create.

He wished he could have that with Sansa.

Stannis knew that the words at the beginning of Sansa’s letter were not meant seriously as Sansa was not - despite her rather frivolous nature and her youth - insipid or empty-headed. He was certain that she had to be quite aware that he would much rather be in Storm’s End with her than waging a war at the Wall -- even if she was as large as she described. From what she wrote and from what Maester Cressen had written in his letters, it was easy to glean that pregnancy suited Sansa well. She was not a sickly, frail creature like Selyse, practically unable to support another life within her. He imagined that Sansa looked healthy and that she had grown more beautiful with each moon’s turn. He knew it was possible for some women to do that.

He recalled how Cersei had always looked when she had carried, and how it had rankled that his brother’s wife should produce three healthy children, appearing near flawless throughout the whole process, while his own wife had wilted in front of his eyes when anyone so much as spoke to her of childbearing. 

But at least Shireen was trueborn. Selyse had managed to best Cersei there.

He was convinced that Sansa was superior to Cersei, too, and that if he could but see her, he would admire everything about her pregnant form. Her teats might already be fuller in preparation of producing milk for the baby…

Stannis rubbed at his face and sighed. Thoughts like those would not really help him sleep.

He was pleased to know that as Sansa grew large with child she was also growing into her role as the Lady of Storm’s End. It was hard to imagine the slip of a girl he had left behind doing anything quite so assertive as having the nursery refurbished without asking his leave first. He recalled how she had barely been able to decide what to serve for dinner without asking him what he would like when they were newly arrived, and the thought caused his lips to quirk into a brief smirk of amusement. The smirk faded away as quickly as it had appeared when he thought of how she would be forced to make nearly every decision without his input if he did not return from this icy wasteland. She would raise their child without his aid and she would practically rule the keep.

Perhaps the thought would have caused him considerable dismay at one point, but he could not help but think that she would rise to the challenge admirably. He could most certainly imagine Sansa doing a much better job of child-rearing and running a keep than Cersei ever did.

It was a comfort to think that if he should die, his keep would be in good hands, his child would be well taken care of and most assuredly _loved._

Thinking about Sansa coming into her own while she was pregnant with his child was not really helping him sleep, either. In fact, all of his thoughts so far had somehow managed to be rather inconveniently arousing. He groaned and fidgeted, wondering whether he should ignore his _problem_ or give in and do something about it. It was very tempting to take care of it as he knew it would most likely relax him and possibly allow him to fall asleep at last. He tried to keep from engaging in this sort of activity when he could, but he always ended up giving into the urge eventually. If he went too long without a release he sometimes had vivid _embarrassing_ dreams that woke him and left him with a mess to clean up.

Stannis let his mind wander as his hand found his achingly hard cock and thought of Sansa as he usually did. At first he continued to imagine her round with child, her teats so full that they were bursting out of one of her pretty silk gowns, but as his need grew, he started to remember what she had looked like sitting astride him. Young, lithe and graceful, with her hair in disarray and her perfectly formed lips parted to moan his name, riding him practically at a gallop and squeezing him with her tight sheath. He tried to imitate the feeling with his hand, but his reality was sadly disappointing in comparison with his fantasy. Despite this, he knew he would not last much longer. It had been too many days since his last release.

He tightened his hold and sped up his movements and tried to remember the exact way Sansa gasped his name when she reached her peak, and the way she clung to his shoulders if he was on top of her. He wished he could hear the sound of their bodies meeting and smell the scent of her arousal, but most of all he could not seem to stop thinking about the way her teats moved as he fucked her and the way her nipples always stiffened beneath his fingers -- or his tongue.

When he climaxed he tried not to make a noise, but a muffled groan escaped him despite his efforts.

He was asleep almost as soon as he had wiped the spent seed off his hand and his abdomen; his body relaxed and his mind finally at peace.


	19. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Tommyginger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/pseuds/Tommyginger) for being a great muse, and for basically coming up with the first scenes in this chapter. 
> 
> And as always, to [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid) for being the beta of my dreams. ♥

According to Stannis’ calculations and Maester Cressen’s letters, Sansa might give birth any day now. He was forced not to give it much thought as it was hard enough to lead his men when his mind was focused and clear, and _impossible_ when he was fretting over whether his wife was currently in the process of giving birth to his child.

When a raven bearing letters for both himself and Ned Stark arrived from Storm’s End, Stannis did not know whether to feel hope or dread. What news did these letters bring? Had Sansa given birth? Was she alive? Was the baby alive? His eyes and Ned’s met as they accepted their respective letters from Maester Aemon, and Stannis saw concern and worry in his good-father’s gaze.

He usually waited until after the evening meal to read and respond to his letters, but he always read Sansa’s missives as soon as they were delivered into his hands. Today he went to his chambers first, wanting to be alone if it turned out he was about to receive bad news.

He hesitated before breaking the Baratheon seal, wondering if it might not be better to wait, and doubting his decision to read the letter while he was alone. Maybe he should ask Jon to be there when he opened it?

 _Don’t be a coward,_ he scolded himself.

He sat down and took a deep steadying breath. With a practised movement he then broke the seal and unfurled the roll of paper.

_My lord husband,_

_Maester Cressen has told me that he expects I will give birth very soon. I hope he is right as I am almost too large to fit through the door of my chambers._

_Although I hope and pray that I will live to successfully bring our child into this world, I know it is possible that I will not be so fortunate. It is a frightening thought, but I am attempting to be brave. I have thought the matter over very carefully, and I believe the challenge ahead will seem easier to face if I share my thoughts with those who are closest to me. I have therefore decided to write this letter to you, as well as letters that I will send to my mother and father, to make clear my wishes in the event of my death._

_I have also informed Shireen of my wishes as I know she will be here in Storm’s End to carry them out to the best of her ability. It is my hope, however, that you will return from the Wall in time and that you will be kind enough to carry them out yourself._

_My first and foremost wish, in the event that I die but our child survives, is that our child will be told how much I loved and wanted it. Every day of my pregnancy has been a gift, and feeling this new life grow within me has brought me more joy than I have ever known. I hope our child will flourish and grow up to be a fine lord or lady, and I hope you will make it known how proud I would have been of him or her._

_My second wish is for our child to know something of my character. I regret that we did not have a very long time to get to know one another before you were obliged to leave for the Wall, but if you are ever in the position to answer our child’s questions about me, I hope you will answer them patiently and to the best of your ability. If you find there are questions you cannot answer, I am certain my family will be pleased to assist you._

_Finally, it is my wish that Lady will be allowed to stay with the babe and protect it from harm. Lady is so well behaved that I am sure she will be no trouble at all. She already listens to Shireen’s commands nearly as well as my own, and I’m certain she will be a loving companion to our son or daughter._

_I hope I do not seem very maudlin to you, but writing these words has given me peace._

_There is no need for you to respond to this letter. If all goes well I will be sending you happy news soon and then everything I have written here will not matter._

_I hope very much that you are well. I know you will do everything in your power to return to Storm’s End, and I pray you will be given the chance to care for and protect our child as a father should._

_Yours,_  
_Lady Sansa Baratheon_

Stannis should probably have expected something like this, but he hadn’t. He found himself struggling to make sense of the jumble of feelings her words had awoken.

A single thought materialised -- a clear note in the cacophony. 

He desperately did not want his wife to die.

He wanted her to live to be a mother, to be there for their child, to be there for _him_ , and to be the Lady of Storm’s End.

Stannis could not read her wishes more than once because he could not accept that he might have to carry them out. He refused to accept it.

Had Selyse had these fears each time she had been pregnant? He knew very well that the fear of losing her babes had weighed on her as it had weighed on him, but she had always soldiered on. She had never spoken to him of her fears or her wishes in the event of her death, but perhaps she had confided in her gods or her family members? There had certainly been enough Florents to go around at Dragonstone, so she would have had her choice of confidants.

Stannis was not sure about how he felt about the fact that he had not been the one she had ever trusted with her thoughts and fears.

Had he failed her? Should he have treated her with more care? She had never seemed to want or need such things from him, and despite her frailty she had always been so... efficient.

Perhaps he ought to have told her that he appreciated her willingness to keep trying for children after so many failures, but he had simply not thought to congratulate her for attempting to do her duty as his wife.

He had just expected it.

He sat paralysed, clutching the letter but unable to bring himself to read it again, and tried to avoid listening to the pessimistic whispers in his mind that seemed bent on convincing him that both Sansa and the child would die. What would he do if he lost them both? _Surely fate would not be so cruel?_

Stannis jumped when there was a sudden knock at his door. 

He wondered how long he had been sitting with Sansa’s letter in his hands, and though he was fairly certain it had not been a very long time, there was a part of him that felt like he had been sitting still for weeks.

“Enter,” he said hoarsely. Jon was the only one who ever knocked on his door like that, and Stannis thought he could tolerate the knight’s presence.

“Lord Stannis.”

Stannis looked up from his letter, his brow furrowed. That did not sound like Jon.

“Lord Stark,” he responded, trying to mask his surprise at this unexpected visit.

“You have read your letter from Sansa?” Ned asked, looking hesitant.

“Yes.” Stannis did not know what else to say, so he left it at that.

“She is afraid,” Ned said, looking at the free chair across from Stannis. Stannis gestured for his good-father to take a seat.

“Of course she is,” Stannis said, frowning down at his letter again.

“Cat was always afraid, too.”

Stannis looked at Ned. He was looking down at his own roll of paper with a mournful expression.

When Stannis did not say anything, Ned spoke again. “Sansa is our second born, but she is the first child Cat and I had after we came to know and love one another,” he said, his voice quiet and reflective.

Stannis was not entirely comfortable with hearing these things, but he was also intrigued, so he did not seek to stop Ned speaking.

“With an heir already flourishing it seemed as if there was less at stake but much more to lose,” Ned went on, still staring resolutely at the piece of paper in his hands, “I have never been as happy as I was when Maester Luwin told me that both my wife and Sansa were hale and recovering well from the birth.” Ned looked up and shot Stannis a tired smile. “I had the bells of Winterfell rung from sunrise to sunset the day she was born.”

Stannis nodded slowly. He had no idea if Ned wanted him to respond.

Ned was looking at his letter again. “Sansa was born of love, not duty,” he said in that same quiet and reflective tone he had used before, “and she is very special to me.”

Shireen was not born of love but she, too, was special to Stannis. He could understand what Ned was trying to say.

“She will be a good mother to your child,” Ned said, “she has always been so sweet and so dutiful.”

Stannis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was not entirely sure he wanted to be in Ned’s presence if he was going to talk of such things in such a sentimental manner, but he could not help being curious about what else Ned might say about Sansa.

“She was even a sweet, well behaved baby,” Ned said, a huff of laughter escaping him, “out of all my children she was the only one who never cried at my clumsy way of holding them.”

Shireen had rarely cried when Stannis had held her. Even when she had been ill.

“I wish I had told her more often how proud she always makes me,” Ned said with a sigh, “but I never gave her very much time when she was little. There were always louder, more difficult children to contend with…” Ned trailed off, looking saddened by his memories.

Stannis wondered if Ned was thinking of Arya. She was certainly loud and difficult.

“She has become such a fine lady,” Ned said, a sad smile on his lips.

“Yes,” Stannis agreed, glancing at Ned and noting that his good-father seemed pleased that he had agreed with him.

Stannis’ vague feelings of guilt over what he had ordered Septa Mordane to do, and how he had gone about giving the order, returned to him more strongly than ever before. 

He had not treated Sansa like a fine lady.

Perhaps she did not behave as a perfect lady ought when she was in bed with him, but she had been without fault when it came to nearly all other matters.

Stannis resolved to show Sansa more patience if he managed to return to his wife. She had not cried at _his_ clumsy treatment of her as of yet, but he wanted to try to do better. Hopefully she would accept his attempts.

_If she lived through the birth._

***

Sansa looked down at herself in dismay. She was _enormous._ None of her gowns fit her properly anymore, and they had been let out only a fortnight ago.

She was in constant discomfort. In bed she could not find a position that allowed her peace, sitting was no better, and walking… Sansa could not really call what she did to move from place to place _walking._ Waddling, maybe? Like Tyrion the imp.

She was constantly plagued by the need to make water, and her moods were so tempestuous that she could hardly stand to be around herself, much less other people.

Her handmaids had learnt to say as little as they could while they dressed her for the day, but she could not fault Lusia for speaking now.

“Milady, the laces…” Lusia hesitated, sounding nervous beyond belief, “I cannot do them up.”

Sansa took a deep breath and felt the fabric of her tent straining.

“Take the gown off, please,” Sansa said with a sigh, “bring me a shift and a robe.”

Sansa tried to wait patiently while her orders were followed, but she was hungry, her back was aching, and her ankles were so swollen that it rather hurt to stand still. The pains she had been feeling low in her belly on and off for weeks were more noticeable than ever this morning, and Sansa inhaled sharply at another onslaught. Before she could urge her maids to hurry, she felt a curious warm sensation on the insides of her thighs. A warm and wet sort of trickle. For an instant Sansa was mortified, thinking she had made water without meaning to, but then she remembered what Maester Cressen had said when Sansa had asked how she would know when the baby was coming. He had said that for some women the first sign was the baby’s womb water leaking out from between their legs, hadn’t he?

Fear, excitement and several other emotions she could not name caused her heart to start beating wildly. 

_A woman’s war is in the birthing bed._

Sansa wondered if the coming battle was one she would emerge from victorious.

“Lusia,” Sansa said, fighting to remain calm, “please go and fetch Maester Cressen and Maester Pylos. I - I believe the baby is coming.”

***

It was a little past midnight when Sansa finally finished pushing the baby out. The relief of it was immense as she was convinced that one more push would have driven her quite mad with the pain. She felt as if she had been torn apart in the most violent and terrifying way possible.

_Mother was right. Compared to this, my wedding night was really rather pleasant._

She would have cried if she hadn’t been much too exhausted and anxious. Was her baby well? Was it a son or a daughter? She tried to see, but Maester Cressen was in the way. 

Her baby cried out and Sansa suddenly understood with perfect clarity what pure, untarnished happiness felt like. _Alive. My baby is alive._

“Congratulations, my lady,” Maester Cressen said with a wrinkled smile, “your son is hale and strong.”

Sansa felt tears make their way down her cheeks. “I want to hold him,” she choked out, her voice shaking with emotion.

Maester Cressen carefully placed the baby at her breast. “He is about the size Robert was at his birth,” he remarked as he helped Sansa get comfortable. She barely took notice of him as she was utterly entranced by the perfect creation in front of her.

He was very wrinkled, his skin was a mottled blue and red, and he was covered in a filmy white substance that she did not really want to know the name of. He looked quite frightful, but he had a full head of ink black hair and he was _hers._

He was no longer crying, having calmed down the moment Maester Cressen relinquished him to her custody and his skin came into contact with her own.

When he opened his eyes Sansa almost stopped breathing. It was as if the world had just _stopped._ There was nothing in it except her son and his blue eyes. She gazed at him in utter wonder, feeling overwhelmed and shaken to her very core.

“Steffon Baratheon,” she whispered, “I am your mother.”

As soon as the words left her lips she was overcome with a feeling of responsibility that she had never felt the like of. Her baby son _needed_ her like no one had ever needed her before, and she was his _mother._ It would fall to her to raise him and teach him to be an honourable man, and if Stannis did not return she would have to do it without his father’s support.

Steffon closed his eyes and made the _sweetest_ mewling sound Sansa had ever heard.

She and Stannis had created this perfect little life, and as unimaginably happy as she was, Sansa was suddenly so terrifyingly aware of every danger little Steffon would have to face as he grew up. He might die of a fever, get lost in the woods, drown in the bay, fall down the stairs, or meet his end in a number of other horrible and tragic ways. She held him close and wondered if it would be frowned upon if she wrapped him in silks and refused to allow anyone to touch him.

Sansa barely felt it when the afterbirth came, and she hardly listened to a word of what Maester Cressen was saying about how good it was that it came out in one piece. Her head was swimming with thoughts and emotions that seemed much too _big_ for her to contain, and all she wanted to do was for everyone to leave her and her baby alone together so that she might have some peace and quiet.

“My lady?” Maester Cressen said, sounding a little as if he had been repeating himself.

“Yes?” Sansa responded, her voice vague and distracted.

“Perhaps it is too soon, but I should like you to try to encourage the boy to suckle.”

Sansa might have blushed at doing such a thing with Maester Cressen watching her at some point, but after giving birth in his presence she found that her sense of shame had left her. She nodded and moved the sweat-soaked shift she was still half wearing out of the way, exposing her breasts. Then, with more care than she had ever handled _anything,_ she gently moved Steffon until his little mouth was right next to one of her nipples. Without even opening his eyes Steffon opened his mouth and seemed to be attempting to latch on.

“You have to move him towards you, my lady,” Cressen instructed, “he is too weak to do it himself.”

Sansa nodded and tried to move Steffon so that her nipple was right in his mouth. It all felt very awkward and strange. She furrowed her brow in helpless confusion. Shouldn’t this all just happen naturally?

Steffon started to suckle, her nipple and the surrounding pink flesh hidden inside his eager mouth. Sansa was surprised at the powerful sensations the pull of his suckling produced. She felt a response deep inside her core, and it reminded her a little of the way she had always responded when Stannis had touched and suckled at her nipples while still being completely different.

“Good,” Maester Cressen said, sounding very pleased, “an excellent latch.”

Sansa was so very tired, but somehow she mustered the energy to smile proudly at Maester Cressen. Steffon’s little accomplishment felt like her own.

“I don’t think there’s any milk,” Sansa said after a moment, her pride fading and worry taking its place.

“All in good time,” Maester Cressen said, “you should try to get some rest.”

The idea of sleep was both tempting and utterly repellant. Her exhausted body was demanding the reprieve, but her mind could not abide the thought of abandoning her son like that.

“Steffon will be right here with you,” Maester Cressen said, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled, “we won’t let anything happen to him while you sleep.”

Sansa objected at first, but Maester Cressen continued to reassure her in his gentle voice until she felt it was safe to close her eyes for a little while. She’d just have a short nap. Just a very short nap to regain some of her energy.

It was peaceful to finally succumb to sleep, and the hailstorm of emotions rushing around her overwhelmed mind finally slowed down and crystallised into a single thought.

She had a _son._

***

Stannis stared at the letter he had just torn open after having hurried to his chambers at such a brisk pace that some might rightly have called it a run.

He stared at the words without seeing them for a while, but eventually he started to make sense of them.

Sansa was alive. Alive and recovering well.

She had birthed him a _son._ A big, strong, healthy _son._

Stannis broke into a smile. His wife was alive and she had given him a son!

He stood still in the middle of his chambers and revelled in his good fortune for several minutes before recalling that there were other people at the Wall who would be happy to hear Sansa’s news.

He only hesitated for a heartbeat before setting off at a brisk pace again. 

Ned first.

Stannis wondered how he should announce it. He would have to attempt to sound dignified, but pleased. Shouting about it would definitely not do -- even though that was his first impulse.

Perhaps he could order some bells rung?

All of them. He would have all of them rung.

***

A moon’s turn after Steffon Baratheon came into the world Sansa started to realise there was something odd about how Septa Mordane behaved around her.

Giving birth to Steffon had not been easy. He was a very big baby and it had been her first time -- which Maester Cressen said was always the hardest. 

Hard did not seem like the right word to describe the birth of her son. 

For a moment, when the pain had reached a peak that Sansa had hardly been able to comprehend, much less endure, she had thought that she would _die_ before she would ever be able to push Steffon out. It had not been _hard._ It had been _terrifying_ , and she had almost had a fit of hysterics due to the stress of it all. Thankfully Maester Cressen had been there to remind her to breathe. 

It was strange how the memory of the pain seemed to have become unimportant. She could recall it clearly, but the idea of it did not frighten her as she thought it surely _should._ After all, she might easily have died had she been a little less fortunate, and if Stannis returned from the war she would be required to repeat the whole process. Sansa thought the prospect ought to be more intimidating. She felt a little like her mind was betraying her by trying to convince her that another pregnancy might not be so frightening, really.

Sansa was still recovering from the ordeal, and both Maester Cressen and Maester Pylos encouraged her to take some time to rest away from the baby’s demands. As much as she loved her son, she quickly realised that her temper was much better if she made certain to take care of her own needs. Thankfully there was no shortage of people - or direwolves - to watch Steffon for her. 

At one point all four direwolves had attempted to surround Steffon’s cradle at once, and there had hardly been enough space for Sansa to get near him. She had been required to quite insistently shoo them out of the room, reaping several mournful gazes due to her efforts. Lady had looked so woebegone that Sansa had thought to herself that it would be all right if _she_ stayed, prompting her wolf to wag her tail and plomp herself down where she stood.

While Jeyne and Shireen were eager to stay with baby Steffon, allowing Sansa some precious time on her own to rest and regain her energy, Septa Mordane doggedly pursued her and made certain Sansa never had a moment of peace. 

Before Sansa had given birth she had cherished her septa’s doting presence, but now it felt stifling and out of place. She was the lady of a great keep and a mother. She did not need a septa following her everywhere she went!

Sansa waited for as long as she could stand, hoping Septa Mordane would sense her discomfort with the way she was always following in Sansa’s wake and cease the behaviour on her own, but eventually Sansa was forced to confront the woman.

They were in the sept and Sansa had just lit a candle for her husband, her father and Jon. She finished her prayers and turned to leave, but right before she reached the door she addressed her shadow.

“Why do you follow me so?” Sansa attempted to sound calm and collected, but there was a small tremor in her voice that she could not disguise.

“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” Septa Mordane said, but she was turning red and Sansa could tell that she was not being truthful.

“Please,” Sansa gave the older woman an imploring look, “just tell me why.”

Septa Mordane clasped her hands together and looked at the floor. “I - I only do as your lord husband bade me.”

Sansa blinked and furrowed her brow. “Lord Stannis asked you to follow me?”

“He asked that you should not be left alone, my lady, and certainly not alone with any young men.”

Sansa stared at her septa in disbelief. Septa Mordane looked apologetic and small, and almost as if she were worried that Sansa would have her punished. It startled Sansa to think that she had the power to make that happen, but she put the disconcerting thought from her mind. She had more important things to consider.

“I see,” Sansa felt herself blush with embarrassment and anger, “did he give you any reason?”

“He said you were wanton, my lady,” Septa Mordane whispered, staring at the floor and wringing her hands, “he said you - you were inappropriately eager for his attentions. That you even… took his seed in your mouth.” Her septa’s voice became hushed when she spoke the last few words, her eyes full of horror. She seemed thoroughly mortified to be speaking of such things.

Sansa could not rightly blame her. This was the most humiliating moment of Sansa’s life, and she felt horrified, too. Horrified that her husband had told her septa about such a private moment, mortified that her septa must have been thinking of her as some sort of wanton whore for all this time, and utterly _shocked_ that this was _actually happening to her._

“He wanted to make sure you did not find another man to lie with in his absence. I think he was worried you would run off with a handsome young man like some say Lyanna Stark did,” Septa Mordane finished, avoiding Sansa’s eyes.

_Aunt Lyanna… ?_

_Oh._

Sansa felt as if she had been struck. No, not struck. She felt as if the ground she had been standing on, the foundation she had built _everything_ on, had suddenly crumbled to dust. It was anguish, and she wished she were alone somewhere, far away from anyone who might hear, so that she might scream until her throat felt as raw as she did.

Why did Stannis think so little of her? Why had he ordered her _watched?_ Why did he think she was wanton, and why had he told another person - her _septa_ \- what went on in their marriage bed?

It was more than humiliating to know that Stannis had even told her septa about how she had taken him in her mouth -- it was excruciatingly hurtful. She had thought they had talked that through and that Stannis had been pleased with it in the end. She had believed that the night when she had stolen into his bed had been a _positive_ turning point in their relationship as man and wife. He had given her leave to visit him after that night, hadn’t he?

_Why?_

It was an utter betrayal, and more than that it revealed to her how _foolish_ she had been to hope; how foolish she had been to build her foundation in the first place. She was stupid to have assumed Stannis had any respect for her. It was so clear to her now: Stannis had only ever wanted the use of her body, and as she had tried so hard - so _hard_ \- to please him, he had started to think of her as his whore rather than his wife. His stupid little _whore._

He had even said it himself the night she had thought she finally reached him. She had just been too stupid to hear it properly.

She bitterly wished she had not felt so protective of him and what they did together as man and wife, and thought that she should just have told Jeyne everything. Maybe Jeyne would have been able to see what Sansa had clearly been too blind to behold.

“I understand,” Sansa said, fighting to hold her angry tears at bay to retain her dignity, “I will write to my husband about this.”

She asked her septa to go and help Jeyne watch Steffon while she went to her solar solar to write a letter.

“Have Jeyne bring Steffon by if he’s hungry,” Sansa instructed before sending Septa Mordane on her way, wondering if she would ever be able to look her septa in the eyes again without recalling this humiliation. 

Would there be a chasm between them from now on? Would this conversation fester and ruin _everything?_

She was crying almost as soon as Septa Mordane turned her back. Tears unlike any tears she had ever shed in her life. These were tears of profound hurt and betrayal, and Sansa would not have been surprised if they had poured forth as black as ink.

What could she have done differently? What more could she have done to be the wife Stannis had expected? She could not fathom it. She had borne it with equanimity when Stannis had hurt her on her wedding night, accepted his unreasonable demand to deprive her of an escort, quietly tolerated it when her decisions to purchase entirely appropriate and _needed_ items had been questioned and derided, and she had endured the indignity of not being told that her husband would be _leaving for war_ until there had been a day to spare.

She had suffered Stannis’ intolerable behaviour and she had smiled at him, petted him and done everything in her power to please him because she had believed that underneath his scowls and suspicious glares there was an _honourable man._

Her father and Jon had both told her that he was honourable and she had believed them.

Well, perhaps Stannis was honourable when it came to his dealings with other men, but she could not see how he had behaved with a shred of honour towards her.

A sob wrenched its way out of her throat and it hurt because she had been trying to repress it.

Her husband had been _cruel_ to her and there was nothing she could do. Nowhere for her to go. She was irreversibly bound to a man who would most likely never see her as anything more than a plaything and a broodmare, and she wished… she wished…

She wished he would just _die_ in the north.

Sansa’s tears started falling in earnest then, and she cried harder and more bitterly than ever had in her life. It took her an eternity to regain control of herself, but her anger eventually became stronger than her sorrow, and she was able to dry her tears. The burning fury in her breast demanded a different outlet, and she found herself sitting down to do what she had told Septa Mordane she would.

Sansa wrote three drafts of a letter to her husband that she was required to burn before finally penning a missive that was not too emotional or full of sensitive information to be entrusted to a raven.

_My lord husband,_

_Septa Mordane has revealed to me the orders you gave her before you left, and I find myself wondering what I ever did to deserve your mistrust and disregard. She told me the reasons you gave and I am appalled that you would share such intimate details with my septa. I have always believed such things should remain between a lord and his lady._

_You once said to me that if I had concerns I should raise them with you. Should I not expect the same courtesy? If you wished for a cold inhospitable wife you simply should have said, and I would have discontinued my attempts to please you at once, my lord. Especially if I had known that my attempts were causing you to doubt my honour to such an extent._

_I have borne your disrespect when it comes to other matters, but I will not forget this insult._

_If your memory has suffered due to the cold, I would remind you that I tolerated your unreasonable refusal to allow me my escort, that I have attempted to adhere to your miserly directives when I purchase necessary goods for the keep, I hardly said a word when you did not inform me of your imminent departure until a **day** before you left for war, and I did not complain when you **bit me** like an animal._

_Your son continues to thrive and grows larger every day. I am recovering well from the birth, albeit slowly._

_Please inform my father and Ser Jon that I continue to pray for their safe return._

_Lady Sansa Baratheon of Storm’s End_

Sansa hoped Stannis would notice that he was omitted from her prayers.

Normally Sansa would have written much more about Steffon as Stannis had seemed so pleased with her news about their son in his last letters, but she did not feel that Stannis deserved any such details now. He would have to make do with knowing that Steffon thrived, and she would continue to keep all details to herself until Stannis _apologised._

***

It took Stannis much longer than usual to reply to her letter, and Sansa was starting to think that it had not been delivered or that something terrible had happened at the Wall, when a raven bearing a letter with the Baratheon seal finally arrived.

_My Lady Sansa,_

_I will not discuss these matters on paper, but know that I did not intend you to be inconvenienced or offended._

_Make certain that Maester Cressen and Maester Pylos know that I consider it their first priority to make certain that you recover properly from the birth._

_It pleases me to know that Steffon is hale and growing strong. I should like more news of him._

_Your father sends his regards and Jon has asked to add a small note to this letter. He insists it is for your eyes only and has made me swear not to read it._

_Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm’s End and Dragonstone_

Sansa frowned at the letter and looked for Jon’s note. She found it on the other side of the roll of paper.

_Dear Sister,_

_Lord Stannis told me that he has managed to offend you at last. I told him that he must have done something very foolish as you are not quick to anger. To my great astonishment he admitted as much, and seems to regret whatever it was that he did._

_I know it is not my place to ask, but try to forgive him. He is not an easy man at the best of times, but now that he is out of your favour he is intolerable._

_At least pretend to forgive him now and shout at him when he comes back to Storm’s End? Please?_

_Ghost says hello and that he misses Lady._

_Your brother and your knight,_  
_Ser Jon Snow_

Sansa raised an eyebrow as she read her brother’s words and wondered if Stannis’ ‘intolerable’ mood could really be due to her angry letter. She hoped so. She hoped he was suffering horribly from guilt and remorse and a toothache from the incessant grinding of his teeth. Stannis’ letter had not revealed much of his feelings, but to Sansa it seemed that her husband was utterly lacking remorse. She turned the thin piece of paper over to look at Stannis’ letter again and found no apology on her second read, but after considering the matter she decided that his words about how he had not meant to offend her would have to suffice until they had a chance to discuss the matter in person.

If he returned.

His insistence that the maesters of Storm’s End make her recovery their first priority sweetened her disposition just enough to prevent her from giving Lady the letter to chew on, and she decided to do as Jon suggested and accept his assurances about his intentions. She did not want the rest of her letters to him to be poisoned by all they had left unsaid, but she promised herself that once he returned from the Wall she would learn _why_ he had doubted her so terribly.


	20. Return

Sansa watched as her son chased after Lady, laughing with delight as she patiently allowed him to catch her. Steffon was big for his age - just as he had been ever since he was born - but he had only just started to walk recently and was no match for Lady.

With a smile at her son’s antics Sansa looked back down at her husband’s last letter to her. It was a few weeks old, but she had felt the need to refresh her memory of its contents. Ever since she had accepted his regret for what he had ordered Septa Mordane to do he had made more of an effort with his letters. They became longer and more like the sort of letters a husband ought write to his wife. She supposed it was nice that he was trying, but she couldn’t help but feel it was too little, too late.

_My Lady Sansa,_

_I cannot give you all the details, but it is my belief that the tides have turned in our favour. With careful planning, and the additional military strength Lord Tywin Lannister was finally persuaded to lend the king’s cause, it may be possible to push the enemy back at last. He did not send nearly as many men as he could have, and he sent the Imp to command them, most likely intending it as a slight. However, Tyrion is far from worthless, despite being a Lannister._

_It pleased me to hear that Steffon has taken his first steps and I trust a weather eye is being kept on him. Toddlers often injure themselves when they start to walk. Renly was constantly bruising his head._

_King Robert has written to your father and it seems Queen Margaery is expecting her second child. Robert is anxious for a son and does not seem entirely pleased with Princess Mina. In fact I saw that he did not call her by her correct name in his letter. Are you still in contact with the queen? As I recall, you were friendly at one time. Perhaps you have already received these news, then._

_Enclosed are letters for Shireen and Ser Cortnay._

_Lord Stark and Ser Jon send their regards, as do I._

_Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm’s End and Dragonstone_

Ever since she had first read the letter she had felt a pang of hurt every time she had read her husband’s words about Queen Margaery and Princess Mina. She was sure it had not been Queen Margaery herself who had been behind it, but a gift bearing the Tyrell sigil had been sent to Storm’s End shortly after Steffon’s birth. It had been a beautiful weirwood chest, carved intricately with stags and direwolves, and it had contained an attractive assortment of preserved fruits and berries. Sansa had been baffled when Lady had growled at the gift, but she had taken the warning seriously and asked Maester Pylos to have a look at the offering. As it turned out, many of the berries were known to those who were wise in those matters to be deadly to young children. They could even be deadly to babies if nursing mothers ate them. Sansa had been utterly horrified, but unable to think what to do. She hadn’t wanted to tell her husband about it as he disliked the Tyrells enough without hearing about such things, and she hadn’t wanted to contact the queen and cause trouble on that front either. (What if it had only been an honest mistake?) But when Storm’s End started to receive more of the dangerous berries in the fruit shipments from the Reach, Sansa knew she had to do _something._

She managed to convince Ser Cortnay that he should not write to Stannis about the situation, and instead suggested that they might import goods from the Vale, the Riverlands and Dorne to make up for cutting all ties with the Reach. The trade agreement between House Baratheon of Storm’s End and the Tyrells of Highgarden had been negotiated when Renly had still been alive, and it had been a lucrative one. Sansa was thankful that her connection to the Vale and the Riverlands through her mother’s family allowed for a similarly lucrative agreement, and hoped it would make up for how disadvantageous the agreement with Dorne was.

Lord Tyrell seemed to know nothing at all of poisonous berries when he wrote to demand an explanation for why Sansa was ending the trade agreement, and Sansa knew better than to accuse him. She decided to explain that she simply wished to strengthen her ties with the Vale and the Riverlands due to her family there, and Lord Tyrell had been unable or unwilling to argue with that.

Sansa fervently hoped that Queen Margaery would give birth to a son next as even though she was no longer receiving goods from the Reach, she was still occasionally sent gifts similar to the chest. She never opened them anymore, but every time a new one arrived it made her frightened that it would be something dangerous and harmful.

Some good had come of the threats the Tyrells had sent, however. Sansa’s relationship with Septa Mordane - which had been strained ever since Sansa found out about her husband’s betrayal - had started to mend. The news that Steffon might easily have been poisoned - that he might have _died_ \- had shaken her septa to the core. It had been quite obvious to Sansa that her septa cared deeply for both her son and herself, and it had been welcome when the woman had gone above and beyond to be supportive and helpful through the whole frightening ordeal. Septa Mordane had seemed to know just what to say to make Sansa feel strong enough to face the challenge, and she had treated Sansa with the motherly affection she had so desperately needed. The threat to her son’s life helped put things in perspective and remind Sansa of all their shared experiences and love for one another, and she was no longer feeling humiliated every time they spoke. Still, Sansa knew that her old plans of asking Stannis if her septa might stay permanently and see to the religious education of their children would come to naught. The wound that her septa’s confession had created had closed, but there would always be a scar, and things would never be quite as easy between them as they once had been. Sansa would be relieved when her septa departed for Winterfell. Sansa bore her no ill will, but she did not want Septa Mordane to raise her children.

Sansa sighed. Perhaps her wishes regarding Septa Mordane and her children would never have mattered, anyway? Stannis was not religious. He would probably not want their children to be influenced by _any_ septa.

She put her thoughts of the Tyrells, Septa Mordane, and the religious upbringing of her children aside in order to focus on those things in her husband’s letter that brought her hope that the war might be drawing to a close. The longer it went on, the more likely it would be that she would lose her father or Jon, and she could not bear the thought of it. 

Though she had wished for her husband to meet his end in the war while she had been furious with him, she no longer carried such a poisonous hope in her breast. Objectively she could see how it might benefit her if he were to die, but she could not be certain that she would be left alone to rule Storm’s End until Steffon came of age. She was quite young and might easily be forced to wed again. Additionally, though Steffon was hale and strong, he was still only a baby, and there was no guarantee that he would live for long enough to grow into his inheritance.

No, for all of Stannis’ insults and bad behaviour towards her, he was a known entity, and despite everything she found herself truly wishing for his safe return. Steffon ought to be given the chance to know his father, after all, and hopefully Sansa would be able to make sure Stannis never treated their son with the sort of careless disregard he had treated her.

Not only would Sansa make certain that Stannis treated their son with every bit of respect and regard Steffon was due, but she would also make it very clear to her husband that she would not tolerate any more of his disrespectful behaviour towards _her_. She had promised herself that she would make him _beg_ before she forgave him, and thinking of how she would accomplish it often helped her get to sleep at night.

Her son made an indignant sound that caused Sansa to look up. He had lost his balance and was sitting on his well-padded bottom with a pout. Lady was looking at him curiously, her head cocked to one side.

Sensing that her little boy was feeling tired and ready for his midday nap, Sansa went over to him and picked him up. “Shall we go see if your sister wants to read you a story?” she cooed as Steffon clung to her, wrinkling the material of her gown in a way that would have irritated her before she had her son.

“Shall I take him?” Jeyne asked, arriving on the scene with a happy grin. Jeyne loved Steffon dearly, and was almost an aunt to him. _Wonderful Jeyne_ , Sansa thought with a smile, _where would I be without her?_ Jeyne had not only been a friend to Sansa when she most needed one, supporting her through her pregnancy and lending a hand with Steffon whenever she could, but also a great help to Sansa when it came to running the household. She was frequently reminded that Jeyne was the daughter of a steward and was relieved to accept Jeyne’s experience and her advice in her dealings with Aren Florent.

With Jeyne’s help and the benefit of experience, Sansa had developed a good understanding of what it cost to run a keep and what she could reasonably purchase to make certain things ran as they should. At Jeyne’s suggestion Sansa had even gone to the trouble of looking through Selyse’s books, and after that she had become confident that she had most certainly not been ordering anything unreasonably costly when Stannis had dressed her down for being frivolous and careless with coin. It was a very vindicating discovery.

Going through Selyse’s books had been eye-opening in more than one way. It had become clear to Sansa that Selyse had been an excellent administrator, and it had prompted Sansa to wonder whether Stannis’ first wife had always been so good at running a household or whether Stannis had harangued her until she became good at it in an attempt to please him. Sansa had not seen much of Selyse when they had both been guests in the Red Keep, but the brief glimpses she could recall had left Sansa with the impression that Selyse had been poor health and most grievously displeased with something. She had not thought on it very much at the time, but Sansa was inclined to be sympathetic towards Selyse’s grim countenance now that she knew what a difficult husband Selyse had contended with for so many years.

Thinking of these things had left Sansa determined to make certain that Stannis would not turn _her_ into such a grim, displeased person, and it had strengthened her resolve to take every proper care of Shireen. Shireen might not have been born to a loving father or a very loving mother, but Sansa loved Steffon’s sweet sister, and had no trouble showing her affection.

For the most part it was not difficult to show care and affection for all the people in her household. She could not really bring herself to show Patchface much care, but Sansa got on very well with most everyone else. She knew their names, their concerns, and in some cases she even knew something of their hopes and dreams. Jeyne had helped her build bridges with so many members of the household that Sansa was starting to feel as if she _belonged._

As if she had been accepted as the Lady of Storm’s End.

Beyond helping Sansa with the daily running of the keep and making it easier for Sansa to forge good relationships with the people of her household, Jeyne had also been the one to bring Sansa’s attention to the details of her dowry. If Sansa hadn’t already been angry at Stannis, the knowledge of all the riches he had gained through marrying her would have been enough to ignite her temper. How had he dared to scold her for spending trivial amounts of gold on fine fabrics and Lady Nyta’s salary when she, Sansa, was directly responsible for a _significant_ portion of the keep’s current wealth. It had been very difficult to maintain her outward appearances that day. She had been obliged to go to her chambers and scream into a pillow.

“No, I think I can manage,” Sansa said easily, hugging her son close, “thank you, Jeyne.”

Steffon was quite handsome in Sansa’s opinion. Black of hair with her light Tully blue eyes rather than Stannis’ darker shade of blue, and already his jaw was square and strong for a baby. It was quite obvious that Stannis was his father, but as much as she loved her son’s Baratheon traits, she also loved everything that Steffon had clearly inherited from her. Her full lips, the shape and colour of her eyes, and her love of music and stories. Even on his worst days, when his temper got the better of him and he refused to do anything but scream, Sansa could always eventually soothe him by playing her harp for him or by singing a pretty song. Her fingers had grown numb and her voice hoarse when he had been teething.

“Maester Pylos sent me to tell you that there has been a raven from Winterfell,” Jeyne said, falling into step with Sansa as she headed towards Shireen’s solar.

“Really?” Sansa quickened her pace, wishing to leave Steffon in the care of his sister while she went to see Maester Pylos.

“Yes, it’s from Robb, I think.”

When Sansa had the letter in her hands she went to her solar and sat down to read it privately. She took a moment to breathe before breaking the white seal, hoping to calm her heartbeat. 

Could this be the letter she had been longing for? The letter that told her the war was over and that her family was finally safe?

Sansa closed her eyes and prayed for strength as she unfurled the roll of paper, instantly recognising her brother’s untidy scrawl.

_Dear Sister,_

_I have terrible news._

_Our father has been killed in battle. He fought bravely, but I am told he became separated from his men and that the enemy overpowered him. He took many of his attackers down with Ice, however, and Jon was eventually able to recover both his body - so that it might be burnt - and the sword._

_We are all in deep mourning and Mother has been distraught ever since the rider from the Wall came with the news. I wish I could have told you all this in person, but I do not know when I will see you next, dear sister. Take comfort in the knowledge that our father was an honourable man and died an honourable death. Perhaps his spirit is now with the children of the forest? I feel as if he is close by when I sit by the heart trees in the godswood -- as if he is looking at me through the eyes carved into the weirwood._

_It is odd that I am now Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but hopefully I will make Father proud. It did not really seem real to me until I held Ice in my hands, but I have nonetheless decided to lend father’s sword to Jon as it will be of more use to him at the Wall than it will be to me here at Winterfell. I think it is what Father would have wanted._

_I do not know if you have received word, but Lord Stannis was severely injured in the same battle our father perished in. I haven’t any clear intelligence about the state that he is in, but I am certain the maesters will do all they can for him. You must stay strong and pray for his recovery, my sweet sister._

_Arya is still at the Wall, despite Mother’s demands for her to return to Winterfell, and apparently she has been making herself useful by acting as Jon’s squire all this time. Mother thinks that with father gone Arya will be much more vulnerable, and she is deathly afraid that she will be killed in battle or dishonoured. I desperately wish I could convince her to return, but I doubt she would listen to me. You know what she’s like. I will try for Mother’s sake, but I don’t expect much._

_I’m sorry that it will fall to you to tell Bran and Rickon about Father. Please tell them how sorry I am that I cannot be there for you all, and give them my love. Mother misses you and the boys terribly, and she will send her own letters soon._

_I hope this war comes to an end soon so that we can all arrange to be reunited._

_Your loving brother,_  
_Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North_

Sansa’s hands were shaking so violently by the time she finished reading the letter that she could not hold it steady. She could not have read another word, anyway, as her eyes were full of tears. 

Could it be true? Could her father truly be gone? 

A broken sob escaped her and a terrible lump seemed to have taken up residence in her throat. Her chest felt like it was burning and she realised she wasn’t taking in enough air. She ended up gasping for breath in between more broken sobs, tears streaming down her face unrestricted. The salt of her tears made her skin itch, and her nose ended up becoming utterly stuffed up as she wept with grief, making it even harder still for her to breathe. She was too distraught to find her handkerchief, too overwhelmed to do anything except wipe messily at her face with the back of her hands. 

She knew she was not only crying for her father, but for her injured husband as well. Guilt settled over her heart and she could not help but feel as if she had somehow been responsible for his injury due to her uncharitable wish for him to die. What if Stannis did not recover from his wounds? He had promised to return, but they had both known it was a promise that might easily be broken. Especially once it became common knowledge that the war was not being fought with human wildlings, but demons and wights. Not everyone in the south believed the stories of the war in the north, but Sansa knew it was true. For all his faults, Lord Stannis would not lie. 

Sansa sobbed until she was hoarse and shuddering with every breath she took. Her tears were wet on her cheeks, lips and tongue, and yet she felt parched with thirst. Her head ached in a way it only ever did if she had been crying, and she felt certain that her eyes had to be puffy and swollen. She could not allow her son to see her in such a state. She had to calm herself down for his sake and try to piece together her broken heart. 

With an enormous effort, Sansa rose from her chair and walked to the washbasin in the corner of her solar. She dipped a soft linen cloth in water and tried to clean her face as best she could, grimacing at the way her nose had run and left her face a sticky mess. 

Cleansing her face seemed to have cleared the fog of grief a little as well, and as soon as she had finished drying herself she knew what she had to do. She had to write a letter to Jon and send the fastest raven Maester Pylos could find to fly to Castle Black. She would ask Jon to speak to a maester and have him send her a proper report on her husband’s condition. After that she would have to find Bran and Rickon and tell them the news of their father. She wished she did not have to be the one to deliver the news to them, but they needed to know. Perhaps she would take them to the godswood and tell them by the heart tree? _Yes,_ she thought, _that is how I will do it._

Sansa felt a little less fragile now that she had decided on a course of action, but she did not think she would recover from her grief for a long time yet. She had loved her father dearly and losing him was a terrible blow. She could not imagine how her mother had to be feeling, with her husband dead and Arya playing at being a soldier… Sansa would write to her mother, she decided, and try to offer what comfort she could. 

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. If her husband died of his battle wounds her son would become Lord of Storm’s End. She would have to help him grow into his role and she would have to be strong for him. She knew she would have help, but she would still need to take on a more active role than she had before, assume more responsibility and more duties. Not only would she have to administer the keep, but she would be regent of the stormlands. 

Sansa sat down at her desk and pulled her writing implements towards her. She was going to write to the maester at Castle Black at once and then she would write a comforting letter to her mother. She would need to answer Robb’s letter, too, so there was no time to lose. 

***

The three months after Sansa received Robb’s letter were the worst of her life. No ravens came, and all she heard were strange rumours of terrible battles involving giants, monsters and savages that had sailed all the way from Essos to join the fight. Sansa had no idea if any of it was true, or whether it was all hysteria and embellished stories from the smallfolk.

“Sansa!” Rickon yelled, running towards her from the other side of the hall, Shaggydog on his heels.

Her brother had grown so much in the last two years that Sansa wondered if her mother would recognise him when they were eventually reunited. Rickon had recently celebrated his eighth nameday, and Sansa had ignored Aren Florent’s protests and hired a troupe of mummers and a popular singer for the event. It had been a small feast, but Sansa had been determined to lift her household’s spirits as everyone had been on edge ever since it became known that Lord Stannis had been injured. She had needed it more than anyone, and did not regret her decision.

“A ship! I think it’s the Fury!” Rickon gasped out as he skidded to a halt in front of her. She had been inspecting one of the tapestries in the feast hall to determine whether it required mending, using the time while Steffon took his nap to take care of a task that required a little peace and quiet.

“A ship?” Sansa repeated in surprise, dumfounded at the idea that after months of receiving not a single letter or a scrap of reliable news the Fury might simply turn up in Shipbreaker Bay.

Shaggydog was running back and forth and in circles in excitement, eager to chase his master around and seemingly not at all pleased that Rickon had stopped moving.

“Yes, come on! Come see!” Rickon exclaimed, still gasping for breath in every other word.

Sansa’s heart was hammering by the time she and her brother reached the parapets of the great tower, and not only because she had been making haste and climbing stairs. The hope of finally finding out whether her husband was alive or dead was making her tremble.

“Look!” Rickon pointed at a ship in the distance, and from the size of it she estimated it might very well be the triple-decked war galley her husband commanded.

Before Maester Cressen had succumbed to old age and died shortly after Steffon’s birth, he had told Sansa how King Robert and Lord Stannis had stood on these very parapets and watched as a storm caused Windproud - the ship that carried their lord father and lady mother - to break up and smash against the rocks of the aptly named bay. Sansa knew that the old man had been trying to sweeten her disposition towards her husband, but though she certainly felt sympathetic towards both Robert and Stannis, she did not think the horrors of one’s past excused dishonourable conduct. For Maester Cressen’s sake she had tried to make it seem as if she were less angry at Stannis, and that had been enough to put the old man’s mind at ease, but her anger was still quite present. Still, Sansa prayed to the old gods and the new that she would never witness such a tragedy, and felt immensely thankful for the fact that the weather was about as still as it ever got in the stormlands. It was likely that the ship that was headed for port would make it there in one piece.

It was cold and windy on the parapets, and Sansa had followed Rickon in too much of a rush to think to bring a warm cloak. She hugged herself and considered going back inside, but she could not make herself tear her eyes away from the ship that seemed to be growing steadily larger as it sailed nearer. Rickon was fidgeting where he stood beside her and Shaggydog was practically quivering with excitement, too.

“Aren’t you cold?” Sansa asked her brother solicitously, more worried about him than herself even though she was only wearing a thin silk gown, and her brother was wearing durable breeches, fine leather boots and a warm doublet.

“I want to see if it’s the Fury,” Rickon said, avoiding the question.

“Me too,” Sansa said softly, staring intently at the ship as if that could make it approach faster.

Thankfully a maid appeared within moments, carrying cloaks for them both and explaining that Bran had sent her. Sansa knew that Bran would have joined them himself if he could have, but he tended to avoid the upper levels of the keep. Too many stairs. Sansa asked the maid to make sure Steffon was tended to when he woke from his nap, and trusted that Jeyne would be ready and willing to take care of him while Sansa was busy. And of course Lady was with him. She always stayed with Steffon whenever Sansa had to be elsewhere.

She had no idea how long she and Rickon stood on the parapets, ignoring the cold and the mournful howling of the wind, just waiting to see if the ship they had spotted was the answer to Sansa’s prayers. It seemed like a very long time, but she knew that time always seemed to slow down when one was eagerly awaiting some event.

“I think it _is_ the Fury,” Sansa said hesitantly after an eternity, “I know you want to stay, but could you please fetch Shireen for me and bring her right back here?” she asked Rickon, wanting the younger girl to confirm her suspicion. Shireen had seen the Fury much more often than Sansa and would probably be better able to recognise the ship. Sansa would have sent for Shireen earlier, but she had not wanted to disturb her lesson with Maester Pylos.

“Shaggydog!” Rickon shouted happily, “race you to Shireen!”

They ran off at a speed that was frankly alarming, and Sansa almost cautioned them to slow down. She realised that they would likely not hear her, however.

Rickon returned with both Shireen and Maester Pylos, and the pair of them took one look at the approaching ship and confirmed that it was indeed the Fury.

“Is Father coming home?” Shireen asked, looking at Sansa with her eyes opened wide. Shireen was a young lady now, flowered and ready to be betrothed. Unfortunately, though she had grown into her large jaw to a certain extent, her appearance was still quite marred by her greyscale scars. Shireen’s maids usually did a fine job of dressing her hair to hide her unsightly Florent ears, and Sansa had insisted on renewing her wardrobe to include the finest, most fashionable gowns, but it was clear to everyone in the keep that Shireen would never be a beauty. Still, she was sweet and Sansa was certain that Shireen had to be the best read and most thoroughly educated young lady in the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa had also made sure she knew how to be flawlessly courteous, and Lady Nyta had started to teach Shireen how to play the high harp as Sansa no longer needed very many lessons. She was the daughter of a high lord and the niece of the king so Sansa had no doubt she would be matched up with a lord of good standing, but it would not hurt for her to be well versed in all the social graces. 

Besides, Sansa would have insisted on harp and etiquette lessons even if Shireen had already mastered several instruments and had perfect manners just to get her away from Patchface as much as possible. Why Shireen tolerated that horrible fool was beyond her understanding, but thankfully Sansa was not required to spend much time in his presence.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said in answer to Shireen’s question, biting her lip uncertainly, “I have received no word.”

“No ravens have arrived recently, my ladies,” Maester Pylos supplied solemnly.

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” Shireen said thoughtfully, staring out across the sea.

***

Stannis despised being injured.

If he were hale and healthy he would be up on deck, watching as Storm’s End drew nearer. Arya had offered to help him get outside, and Stannis had wanted to accept, but as soon as he attempted to move he was overcome by pain and was forced to lie still again.

He knew it could be worse. The maesters had said that he would likely recover given enough rest and time. He might not be able to stand tall and fight within a moon’s turn, but he would eventually regain his strength, and he had his life. He was keeping his promise to Sansa and he would meet his _son._ He did not like the idea that his son would come to know him as an injured, tired old man, but he supposed it was better than his son never coming to know him at all.

“Arya,” he called hoarsely, knowing that the girl had to be close by. Arya had proven her mettle during the war, and Stannis had never had cause to regret the way he had encouraged her to be a dutiful squire to her brother. She had been wise enough to heed his advice about remaining vigilant and sleeping with her hand on the hilt of a knife, and as far as he knew, she had not been dishonoured. He had not had very much to do with Arya until the final months of the war, however. He had come to appreciate her when he had been injured and she had been the only one who had the time to report accurate news to him as soon as there were any developments, and aid him in many other small ways.

She came into his cabin moments after he called for her, still dressed as a squire though her mother had made it quite clear that she was to behave as a lady at Storm’s End. Her mother had not really wanted to allow Arya to leave the north, but Arya had begged to be allowed to go and be reunited with her wolf. Stannis had argued on her behalf as he had grown used to her company and knew she would be useful to him aboard the Fury. He had pointed out that she could easily return to the north with Bran and Rickon, and Catelyn had agreed that Arya could go on the condition that she would ‘learn to act more like Sansa’.

“Need anything, my lord?” she asked, sounding a little out of breath.

“My letters,” Stannis grunted, attempting to sit up on his berth and giving up almost at once. His cracked ribs he might have been able to contend with, and indeed they were probably healed by now, but that damned stab wound was unbearable. The maesters had been baffled that he had survived the journey back to Castle Black with such a deep cut in his flank, but Ser Niclas had known to bind him up and keep sufficient pressure on the wound. Upon considering the matter, Stannis decided it had probably been a mistake to attempt to join the fighting again as soon as the wound had seemed sufficiently healed the first time. But when that Targaryen girl had arrived with her monsters, her ‘Unsullied’ and her Dothraki horde, it had seemed essential to appear fit and strong.

“Here you go,” Arya said, handing him a bundle of letters. They were Sansa’s letters; he had kept each one and he liked to read them frequently to remind himself of her and the life that awaited him. Every word about his son had been read so often that he could have recited them from memory, but he still liked to hold the paper and trace the delicate strokes of Sansa’s pen with his eyes. 

There was only one letter that he did not like to read and thinking of it now made his insides twist up uncomfortably. He was almost certain that Sansa would want to discuss how he had ordered Septa Mordane to guard her chastity, but hopefully Sansa would give him a day or two to rest before he was obliged to explain himself. He hoped he would be given a chance to repair the damage he had wrought and prove that he would not allow jealousy to rule him now that he had returned. He refused to end up like Lord Arryn’s widow.

Stannis grunted as he accepted the letters, and was on the verge of dismissing his girl squire when she spoke.

“Do you think Sansa will be very surprised when we just turn up?” Arya asked before he had a chance to.

“Someone will have spotted the ship,” Stannis muttered, still feeling irritated that the Targaryen girl had seized all the ravens at the Wall and in Winterfell for her own use. He supposed that it would have been possible to make port on the way south and send a raven from there, but he hadn’t been in any condition to write a letter for most of the journey, and it had seemed a very difficult task to explain what had happened at the Wall since he had been injured. Perhaps Lord Stark had regained control of his ravens in the meantime. Perhaps he had sent his sister some news…

He felt suddenly terribly thirsty and gestured feebly for what he wanted.

“I can’t wait to see Nymeria,” Arya said as she busied herself with a jug of boiled water, adding a pinch of salt for him. He preferred lemon water, but he did not know if there were any lemons aboard the ship. They had picked up some supplies in Dragonstone rather than King’s Landing as Stannis had wanted to see Ser Davos, and he doubted Dragonstone would have had lemons to spare now that Stannis was no longer living there.

Stannis winced as he recalled the words Davos had spoken when Stannis had sought his advice regarding the mess he had made of his marriage.

_”If I am to be quite honest, I’m not sure if the situation is salvageable, my lord,”_ Davos had said, looking at Stannis with an expression Davos had never worn in his presence before. It was an expression of badly hidden disappointment, and it had shamed Stannis to look upon it.

_”Surely there is something I could do?”_ Stannis had asked, hoping Davos was not correct to think that Stannis had irreversibly damaged his relationship with Sansa.

Davos had shrugged and sighed. _”Grovel at her feet and hope she is kind enough to forgive you.”_

“Do you think Nymeria will remember me?” Arya asked idly as she helped him drink.

Stannis did not think it was the sort of question that required an answer from him, so he ignored it. He was still thinking about Davos’ advice.

“I wish Jon was here,” she sighed, putting the cup he had been drinking from away.

The mention of the young knight brought Stannis back to the present moment. “I daresay he has his hands full,” he muttered darkly. The Targaryen girl had taken a _liking_ to Jon, and once it became apparent that Jon had been able to control one of those… _monsters_ she had decided to steal his knight from him. Jon had sworn that he would return to Storm’s End once he had sorted everything out with the ‘khaleesi’, but Stannis was not entirely certain the girl would release him.

“Is he going to marry her?” Arya asked, plopping herself down in a simple wooden chair near his berth.

Stannis had no idea. He had not been able to tell if Jon had been as interested in the khaleesi as she had been in him. Stannis had his suspicions about Jon and that wildling girl he had met when he had been living amongst the free folk.

“Daenerys Targaryen wishes to take the Iron Throne,” Stannis said, trying to say the words without being too derisive, “if she marries it will be to serve that cause.”

“Aren’t you worried she’ll kill your brother or something?” Arya asked curiously, cocking her head to the side.

Of course he was worried. Part of the reason he had avoided King’s Landing was to avoid Robert’s wrath. Robert had been irritated enough when Sansa had managed to give birth to a son before Queen Margaery had, but Stannis was certain that Robert had to be furious with him for not doing more to stop Daenerys Targaryen. Robert would probably have wanted Stannis to murder the silver haired girl in her bed, but Stannis had not the patience for plotting assassinations. Especially not when there were white walkers, wights and _dragons_ about.

“King Robert is well protected,” Stannis said with a frown.

“Yes, but Daenerys has _dragons._ ”

“Just one dragon, now,” Stannis reminded Arya, “a dragon that prefers Ser Jon Snow’s company the last I heard.”

“Yes, which is why _I_ think she’s going to marry him,” Arya said.

Stannis thought it was remarkable how different Arya was from her sister most of the time, but occasionally she said something in a certain way, reminding Stannis of Sansa, and reminding Stannis that Arya was not at all a squire. Indeed, Arya was fast approaching the age at which he had wed her sister, and she would most likely be married off soon enough. At least betrothed. His daughter, too, would need to be found a match.

“Do not concern yourself with the matter,” Stannis said at length, not wishing to discuss any of this. The politics of marriage had never interested him much.

Suddenly there was a great deal of shouting and commotion up on deck. Stannis recognised the sounds immediately, and knew that they would be making port soon.

“You should go put on your gown, my lady,” Stannis said stiffly. Arya had done well as his squire on the way to the stormlands and her company made up for Jon’s loss to a certain small extent, but he had promised her lady mother that he would see to it that she acted as a lady would in Storm’s End, and he intended to keep that promise. He appreciated that it was hard for Arya to confirm to the rigid rules of ladylike behaviour that her sister seemed to adhere to so effortlessly, and he had some sympathy for her as he, himself, disliked useless courtesies, but it would not do for the girl to continue behaving as if she would not have to marry and produce heirs in her turn. It was her duty.

“ _My lady?_ ” Arya repeated his words in disgust, wrinkling her nose.

“Yes. Off you go,” Stannis bit out, brooking no argument.

Arya got up and heaved a great sigh. “As you wish, my lord,” she said grudgingly, stomping off to presumably do as he bid.

Stannis clutched at the bundle of letters Arya had handed him earlier and started to read the most recent one, wondering if Sansa had ever felt restricted or displeased with her lot in life as her sister so clearly did.

Was there perhaps some effort behind Sansa’s seamless courtesies and pleasing manner?

He put the thought aside for the time being as he touched a finger to the dry ink of Sansa’s signature.

Soon he would see his wife again. 

Soon he would see his _son._

***

When it was finally time to disembark, a young blacksmith named Gendry assisted Stannis from his berth to a litter he then helped carry. Even injured and lighter than he had been in a long time, Stannis was still a large man, and Gendry was one of the few aboard the ship who had the bearing to lift him with relative ease. Stannis recalled Gendry from Queen Cersei’s trial, and even if he hadn’t, he would have recognised one of Robert’s bastards anywhere. Gendry had come to the Wall early on to assist with the war effort, and his talents had been put to good use. A good blacksmith was worth ten soldiers and Stannis had therefore attempted to ignore him and put aside his irritation with the lad’s parentage.

Up on deck Arya found him, wearing a gown she had obviously put on quite hastily and without any assistance. Her hair was still short, dirty and uncombed, and she did not appear to have so much as washed her face.

“What are you _wearing_?” Gendry asked with a laugh, smiling widely. When he smiled he looked so much like Renly that Stannis was momentarily disconcerted.

“Shut up,” Arya snapped, but Stannis noticed her blush under the layers of grime on her cheeks. 

_Unusual._

They disembarked soon after, and Stannis did not hear if Arya and Gendry said anything else to each other.

It felt undignified and uncomfortable, but he was moved from the litter into a small wheelhouse like so much baggage and not given an opportunity to ride to his keep like a proper lord on the back of a proper destrier. He knew he was too injured to ride, but he scowled and ground his teeth at the injustice nonetheless. Arya was put inside the wheelhouse with him and it was difficult to tell which of them was more sullen about the arrangement.

By the time they arrived at his keep Stannis was too overwhelmed with a confused muddle of feelings to dwell on the fact that he was not riding a horse. He was glad to be home, and his heart started to beat a little faster every time he thought of Sansa and his son, but he could not help but fear that Sansa would not welcome him as she had when he had been hale and whole. _Would she welcome him at all?_ She had been kind in her letters, but Stannis knew he would eventually have to face the consequences of the orders he had given to Septa Mordane.

Thinking of his son did not really bring him any peace, either. His son would not know him and Stannis would be unable to so much as lift the boy. What if the boy disliked him?

And what use was a lord who did not have the strength to _walk?_

When they arrived at their destination Arya jumped out of the wheelhouse with all the grace of a turnip and started to shout words he could not make out. She sounded excited and he wondered if she was greeting her sister in such an unladylike manner.

Gendry came to help him and told him that a litter had been called for. “But would you like me to help you to stand while you greet your household, my lord? They’re all waiting outside.”

Stannis clenched his jaw, annoyed that Gendry was the one to help him, but unable to do without his assistance. “Yes,” Stannis bit out, glaring at nothing in particular.

The first thing he saw once he was outside was Arya. She was kneeling in the dirt, most likely ruining her gown, and rubbing Nymeria’s belly, babbling excitedly at her familiar about nothing that made sense to him.

“My lord,” a soft familiar voice spoke, bringing his attention to the line of people standing a little further away.

If he had needed Gendry’s support before he needed it doubly now that he was faced with his wife. He had thought he had remembered how beautiful she was, but it appeared his memory had betrayed him. Or perhaps she had grown more beautiful in their time apart?

She looked as stunning as she had on their wedding day. She was wearing blue silks and a grey velvet cloak lined with white satin. Her long auburn hair was cascading over her shoulders and down her back, shining copper in the fading light of the sun. Her figure was as tall and slender as he remembered, but her curves seemed fuller and more womanly, and he had to force himself to look away from her bosom before his gaze became unseemly. He met her eyes and was startled by the depth of emotion he could see in them. She smiled at him, but wept at the same time as if she could not make up her mind about how she ought to feel.

“My lady,” he said to acknowledge her, hardly able to get the words out due to the hard lump that had formed in his throat.

“Allow me to present your son, my lord,” Sansa said, obviously having difficulties getting her own words out, her voice shaking as she struggled to breathe evenly.

Stannis looked to Sansa’s right and saw his daughter walk forward, holding a toddler’s hand.

“Welcome home, Father,” Shireen said shyly. She had grown much since he had last seen her, and though most people would undoubtedly consider her ‘homely’, he had never seen her look quite so poised. Whether it was Sansa’s influence or simply the fact that she had aged he did not know, but it pleased him to see her looking well.

His eyes were irresistibly drawn to his son once he had nodded at Shireen, his heart pounding in his chest as he leaned more and more of his weight on Gendry, afraid that his own legs would give out if he did not.

“This is Steffon Baratheon,” Shireen said quietly, “my brother.”

The boy was blinking up at him curiously, an uncertain frown on his young face. He was dressed in a black velvet tunic - a stag with magnificent antlers embroidered in gold thread on its breast - and a cloth-of-gold cape was draped across his shoulders. His hair was thick and black, marking him as a Baratheon as surely as his Tully blue eyes marked him as his mother’s son. The prominent square jaw took away any doubt that he could be anyone’s son but his, and Stannis swallowed thickly, feeling a tightness in his chest as he finally let go of the last shred of doubt.

“Son,” he choked out, staring at the boy as if he would disappear if Stannis looked away.

The boy looked over his shoulder at Sansa and clung to his sister’s hand. “Mama?” he said uncertainly, clearly confused.

Sansa had found a lace-trimmed handkerchief for her tears and dabbed delicately at her face. “Yes, my darling,” she cooed at him, smiling beautifully. A light appeared in her eyes that had not been there when she had looked at _him._

Steffon let go of Shireen’s hand at wobbled over to his mother, repeating himself decisively. (“Mama.”) Once he had reached her blue silk skirt he raised his arms in a universally recognisable entreaty to be picked up. Sansa obliged and carried the boy over to him so that he might see his son up close.

Steffon was a well formed healthy child, and Stannis noticed how smooth his skin seemed, and how round his cheeks were. He had the button nose of a baby and Sansa’s full lips. Stannis realised with a jolt that his son might grow up to just as handsome as Renly had been, and blinked at the sudden onslaught of grief for his brother. They had not really seen eye to eye as adults, but he remembered Renly as a child, remembered how he had almost starved to death during the siege but hardly ever cried, remembered how Renly had sought his company even when he had been irritable and barely able to tolerate Renly’s childish bids for attention…

Feeling brave now that he was in his mother’s arms, Steffon reached for Stannis’ face and touched his beard with his pudgy little fingers, a look of concentration creasing his brow. “Beard,” Steffon declared, not really managing to enunciate the ‘r’.

“That’s right,” Sansa said encouragingly in a tone most women seemed to adopt when they spoke to babies, “your lord father has a beard.” She smiled politely at Stannis and spoke next in her normal tone of voice. “You’ve let it grow out.”

“It is an inconvenience to keep it close-cropped at sea, and it was cold in the north,” Stannis muttered, feeling very ungroomed and less than presentable next to his wife and son. He had been wearing the same shirt and breeches for several days, and though he had been wrapped in a fine velvet cloak when he had left his cabin, he suspected he did not smell entirely pleasant.

Sansa just continued to smile her practised smile. The light in her eyes had vanished.

_Was this how things would be between them from now on?_ Stannis felt cold at the thought.

He managed to address the rest of the household briefly before the litter arrived, but he was relieved when he moved to the litter and was no longer required to lean on Gendry. He imagined that Gendry had to be relieved, too. The lad hadn’t made a single sound of complaint while Stannis had used him as a human crutch, however, which Stannis grudgingly admired.

Most of all he was relieved to have made it as far as this.

He was alive and he was at _home._


	21. Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again - I can't thank [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid) enough for her help as beta on this fic. I spent most of yesterday angsting over various bits and pieces of this chapter, and Blue was amazingly patient with me. ♥

Stannis had only just been carefully placed on his bed in the lord’s bedchamber when Sansa arrived. She dismissed the servants that had been helping him and left them alone together for the first time since the morning he had left Storm’s End.

“I have called for some hot water,” Sansa informed him. There was something very competent in her tone and her manner. “I thought you might want to clean up before Maester Pylos arrives to tend to your wounds.”

“I’m supposed to keep the dressing dry,” Stannis said with a frown, wincing as he tried to shift himself into a more seated position on the bed so that he could lift his shirt and show Sansa how much of his flank had been dressed with bandages. The pain of every movement was excruciating.

“Oh,” Sansa said, furrowing her brow, “Robb wrote that you had been injured, but he did not say how you were wounded.” She helped him finish what he had started by lifting his shirt. Soon it was off, and judging by the way she was wrinkling her nose Stannis thought his suspicions about the way he smelled had just been confirmed.

“We shall just have to find a way to wash you without getting the bandages wet,” Sansa said firmly, putting his shirt away to be washed. 

“Wait,” he said, raising his voice a fraction, “my handkerchief,” he added, looking at the shirt Sansa had just put away. He was sure it was still inside the left sleeve and he wanted it near him.

Sansa found it and placed it on the nightstand beside him without comment. She looked at it a moment, before straightening her spine and taking a deep breath.

“Breeches next,” she said, resuming her efficient, matter-of-fact manner.

She had already moved his bedclothes out of the way by the time he realised that she meant to undress him herself.

“I can… “ he trailed off when her hands found the laces of his breeches, unable to finish the sentence and tell her that he was perfectly capable of doing this on his own. She was barely touching him, but the sight and feel of her hands so close to his cock was making him harden despite his injury and his fatigue. He doubted it would last, and he knew he was in no condition to bed Sansa, but he couldn’t help his physical response to her. To his surprise and relief, she did not stop what she was doing. She finished unlacing him and pulled his breeches off gently, studiously ignoring the way his cock was straining the material of his smallclothes.

“My lord?” Sansa said quietly, “shall I remove the rest?”

With his throat dry he nodded, wondering what she would do. Just undress him? Touch him?

She did not really seem to be in that sort of mood.

 _Why should she be?_ His mistakes hung heavily in the air between them, unaddressed and oppressive.

Her hands were gentle as she removed his smallclothes and his socks, and Stannis shuddered when her fingers brushed the skin near his cock, the touch so brief and soft that it was almost just a whisper.

Sansa put the last of his clothes away and returned to him, sitting on the bed next to him with her feet still touching the floor. Stannis had covered himself with the bedclothes, but it was rather obvious that he was still aroused. He wished he were not.

“Would you like me to ask Maester Pylos to wait for a little while?” Sansa asked, glancing at the prominent bulge below his waist. She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said, too exhausted to feel embarrassed.

Sansa left the room for a moment, but returned before he could start to miss her, carrying a bucket of steaming hot water. She poured most of it into his washbasin and found several soft-looking linen cloths and soap, bringing the lot over to where he was still half sitting and half lying in bed, His heart started beating very fast when he realised she intended to wash him with her own hands.

“I don’t want to get your bedclothes all wet if I can avoid it,” Sansa said, “do you think you could sit on that chair if I brought it over here?”

Moving to the chair was painful and caused his arousal to flag. He did not harden as Sansa began to wash him. He felt too discomfited and exposed, sitting naked on a wooden chair as his fully clothed wife patiently cleaned a sea voyage of grime off his skin using cloths that she soaked in warm water and lathered with soap. She was careful to keep the dressing of his wound meticulously dry as she worked, and she never rubbed him raw or caused him any discomfort.

“Shall I do something about that beard?” Sansa asked as she placed the washbasin on the floor and instructed Stannis to submerge his feet in the water. It was lukewarm by now, but it still felt pleasant.

“I’ll have a servant help me with it later,” he decided.

Sansa nodded and suddenly knelt at his feet, a sheepskin coming in between her and the cold stone floor. She picked one of his feet up from the water and started rubbing it with a clean cloth, cleaning him thoroughly with soothing circular movements. No one had ever done this for him, and he stared down at her in shock, too dumbfounded to jerk his foot out of her hands or tell her to desist. Guilt caused his insides to writhe like a nest of adders, and his wounds felt even more painful than they had before. He did not deserve this from her. He was the one who should be on the floor at her feet.

She looked up and must have understood some of what he was thinking by observing his expression. “Let me do this for you, Stannis,” she said in a voice that was not girlish at all, “you fought a war to protect the realm and you are injured and tired. Let me give you this comfort.”

There wasn’t anything he could say to that, so he closed his mouth. Sansa had already washed everything else… well, _nearly_ everything else, so it would not really change anything if she washed his feet, too. All it did was prick at his conscience like a thousand sharp needles. 

It was a unique torment -- a special kind of hell.

By the time she finished with both feet her touch had him feeling uncomfortably aroused again despite his painful guilt, and he was glad to move back to the bed where he could cover himself with his bedclothes.

“Wait,” Sansa said before he could hide his body, “we haven’t finished.”

“I’m not moving back to the chair,” Stannis growled, his pain and his embarrassment at being so exposed making him irritated.

“No, this last part will most likely be better with you lying down. We will just have to be careful not to spill any water,” she said with a quick glance at his groin. Stannis quickly realised what she meant and hardened even further at the idea that she would be washing him _there._ His annoyance was gone in an instant and all he could think about was how _long_ it had been since she had touched him.

Sansa got some clean warm water, the soap and the remaining linen cloths, and set them down on the chair he had just vacated, moving it so that it was within his reach.

“Would you like me to assist you?” Sansa asked, studiously ignoring the way his cock was twitching.

He blinked at her. What sort of question was that? Assist him? Was she not going to do it?

“Only, I would not want to give you the impression that I am eager to touch you _wantonly_ ,” she said, her tone somehow soft and hard at the same time. There was ice in her eyes.

 _Oh._

He was sure he had never become flaccid so quickly, and he felt himself redden as he realised just exactly how ridiculous he had made himself. His first instinct was to get angry at Sansa for placing him in this situation, but he quickly found that he had no energy for such things. 

It was time he admitted that he had been wrong to behave towards his wife as he had done. 

Stannis had to swallow a few times before he was able to get is mouth to cooperate, and his skin felt clammy despite the recent wash.

He recalled Davos’ advice and steeled himself.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lady,” he said slowly, meeting her eyes, “I was wrong to doubt your honour.” He had never felt as humbled in his life, naked and at a woman’s mercy, but he knew he deserved it. 

Something about the way Sansa was sitting over his prone form triggered a very clear memory of a time when their roles had been reversed, and it prompted him to wonder if Sansa had felt this helpless on their wedding night when she had been naked and at _his_ mercy.

Stannis had half expected it to feel painful to ask for Sansa’s forgiveness as he had rarely apologised to anyone, but he was struck by how much lighter his chest felt now that he had said the words. Asking her forgiveness was the right thing to do. He had behaved in an unjust way and this was the first step towards making things whole between them. He could feel it.

“Yes you were,” Sansa gazed at him steadily, “and you hurt me deeply.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words coming surprisingly naturally to his lips as he willed her to forgive him.

“Do you understand the extent of what you did?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as if examining him.

Stannis did _not_ squirm.

“I - er,” he paused to swallow again, feeling thirsty and uncomfortable, “I betrayed the trust you had placed in me.” He had never said these words out loud and it felt rather like lancing a boil. He knew it needed to be done, but it pained him to speak of it, and it pained him still more to observe the wounded expression on Sansa’s face. His behaviour had _hurt_ her. He could see it quite plainly. As difficult as it had been to read her angry letter, it was infinitely worse to observe the effects of his actions first hand.

“Why?” Sansa’s voice trembled and there was just too much emotion on her face for Sannis to sort through. “Why did you do it?”

Davos’ voice echoed in his skull, calling him a fool, imploring him to be reasonable, telling him to grovel, and Stannis found himself wishing that Davos would have come to Storm’s End when he and Sansa had, and that his friend had helped him see sense before he had done his best to destroy his marriage.

“I was foolish,” Stannis admitted, forcing himself to meet Sansa’s eyes even though the urge to stare at the floor was very great, “and afraid,” he added in a whisper.

“What were you afraid of?” Sansa was blinking in surprise, looking at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.

“I am not a comely man,” he said, unable to prevent himself from scowling, “and I am no great lover,” he bit out, feeling himself redden at the words.

Sansa furrowed her brow, but did not speak.

Stannis took a deep breath. “I was afraid I could never be enough for you.” It was horribly humiliating to say it out loud, and his heart was beating uncomfortably fast, pumping all of the blood in his body to his face.

“You had no cause for concern. I was perfectly satisfied with you, my lord,” Sansa said in a quiet admonishing tone of voice. He winced and allowed himself to look away from her for a moment. It hurt too much to see the truth in her eyes.

“I was too foolish to see that,” he said through clenched teeth, angry at himself, ashamed and _exhausted,_ “and you always seemed to want _more._ ”

“I only ever sought to please you, my husband, and you made me think my behaviour was welcome and to your liking,” Sansa took a shuddering breath, “for you to speak of me as some wanton whore to my own septa and have me watched by those I trust instead of simply _talking to me_ and explaining your thoughts…” Sansa trailed off and closed her eyes.

She was silent for a little while and Stannis did not say anything. He tried to be patient in his shame.

Sansa’s eyes opened. “You did not act as an honourable lord would have done.”

It was his turn to squeeze his eyes shut as her words stung his pride. He knew she was correct, however, so he forced himself to open his eyes again to face her.

“You treated me with callous disregard,” Sansa said with a note of finality in her tone, accusing him with her eyes, “even though I did nothing to deserve it.”

Stannis felt the wound on his flank burn as if it were newly inflicted.

He took a deep breath and met Sansa’s eyes squarely. “I swear I will not act so dishonourably towards you in the future, my lady,” he said, clenching his jaw in determination.

Sansa stared at him, obviously trying to ascertain whether she could trust his word.

 _She is still unsure._ He abandoned what little there remained of his pride. “Please,” he croaked, “I swear - I swear it on our son’s life. Please forgive me.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to speak, feeling utterly at her mercy.

Sansa reached forwards to stroke his cheek, and Stannis watched as tears escaped her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and getting caught at the corners of her mouth.

“I forgive you, Stannis,” she whispered.

Stannis closed his eyes and relished her words just as he relished the touch of her gentle hand on his face. The relief of her forgiveness was immense, and the painful knot he had been carrying deep inside himself ever since he had read her angry letter seemed to loosen.

“Thank you,” he whispered, grateful beyond belief. 

There was silence between them for a long moment, but it was not a tense, uncomfortable silence. It was simply quiet and reflective.

His eye flew open when he heard water dripping and he looked on as Sansa wrung out a cloth and rubbed it against the soap to create a small amount of lather. Was she going to… ?

“Let me know if I’m causing you any discomfort,” she said with a tiny smile.

It was maddening. She started by cleaning the skin that surrounded the wiry black hairs at the base of his cock, then spent an eternity on the hair itself - which was probably not a bad idea in truth, but very frustrating nonetheless - before finally moving to pleasure him by stroking the warm cloth over his sac, using the same soothing circular motions she had used on the soles of his feet, but touching him even more gently. By the time she started to wash the shaft of his unbearably hard cock he was breathing heavily and clutching at his bedclothes, almost at the point of begging for more but stubbornly trying to hold onto some semblance of dignity by remaining silent.

He had never thought kindness could be ruthless before now.

A moan escaped him despite his best efforts when she lathered the soap and spread the foam over the head, pulling the skin down to reach every crevice. He was so sensitive where she was touching him, and everything she did felt so _wonderful,_ that he could hardly think. She took her time about wiping all the soap away and then stroking him with wet cloths to get him perfectly clean. Her touch was relentlessly careful and light, giving him just enough pleasure to make him desperate for more, but not doing anything to bring him closer to release.

When she pulled her hands away he made an indignant sound and almost growled at her to keep going. He remembered himself just in time, however, and bit his tongue. Sansa was not required to pleasure him. The fact that she had just seen fit to wash him so gently was more than he could ever have expected or asked of her.

“Just let me put these things away,” Sansa said with an enigmatic expression on her face.

He watched her as she emptied the murky water from the washbasin into the bucket, placed the washbasin back where she had found it along with the soap, and then carried the bucket and the soiled cloths over to the door of his chambers to be removed later. It was agonising to lie there, helplessly aroused and fully aware that he would not be able to take Sansa as he wanted to in his injured state. Even if she were to sit astride him it would be too much strain on his slowly healing wound. He thought he probably had just about enough strength to manage to get himself to climax using his hand, but he would _not_ do that while she was still in his chambers.

She returned to him and climbed onto the bed until she was lying on her side next to him, her face turned towards his.

“Would you like me to continue?” she whispered, blushing pink.

Not trusting his voice, he just nodded. He desperately wanted her to continue touching him. He knew it was all wrong because she had already given him an heir and he should really just leave her in peace until they were ready to try for another child, but he had missed her touch while he had been away, and despite everything she seemed just as genuinely willing to touch him now as she had before he had gone to war. 

He realised then that he had been utterly wrong before they had been married. He recalled thinking that he had deserved a lady like Sansa Stark -- that he had been worthy of her. Perhaps he had deserved a lady of her rank and position, but he had not deserved _Sansa._ He did not think there was a man alive who deserved her.

“Are you certain?” She bit her lip and gave him a searching look.

“Yes,” he choked out. He might not deserve this, but he _needed_ it. When she still looked hesitant he took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “Please, Sansa. _Please._ ”

“You won’t think me wanton for doing this for you?” she asked, her voice soft.

“No!” he blurted, horrified at the question. How could she ask him that? It would be ridiculous to think that _she_ was the wanton one in this situation.

There was a pause while neither one of them spoke. 

Stannis suddenly realised the implications of what he had just thought and winced.

“Do you promise?” she asked, blushing and vulnerable.

He cleared his throat and met her eyes. “I promise.” He meant it.

Something in Sansa’s bearing changed, then, and everything about her seemed suddenly softer and more relaxed. “As you wish, my lord,” Sansa said, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his lips before mercifully giving him what he so desperately needed.

Sansa’s hand was warm and she grasped him firmly, no longer just stroking him gently to wash him. She started to move her hand steadily up and down along his shaft, pulling his skin pleasurably along with her, alternately exposing and concealing the bulbous tip of his cock. Droplets of clear liquid were already forming there in time with her movements, and Stannis groaned with pleasure when Sansa surprised him by leaning over and lapping the fluid up. The sensation of her hot tongue _there_ was so much better than he had recalled, and he wondered if his memory had been deliberately faulty to allow him to bear his separation from her a little more easily.

He wanted her to continue using her mouth on him, but he didn’t dare ask. Not now that Sansa had only just forgiven him. She was already doing much more than her duty and he did not wish to put her off. Still, he moaned every time she lapped at a fresh droplet of liquid, wishing each time she would linger for a little longer, lick and suckle at him in that way she had done so long ago…

It was the sweetest torture he had ever experienced.

She had not been pleasuring him for very long when he felt that his release was impending. “Sansa,” he warned her breathlessly, letting go of the bedclothes he had been gripping in order to touch her briefly.

And then she smiled at him and placed her lips around his cock, sucking on the tip as she continued to move her hand. The pull of her hot wet mouth was shockingly pleasurable after all her teasing, and he climaxed without needing anything more, gasping her name and feeling utterly lost. For a heartbeat or two he could have sworn the world was plunged into peaceful darkness, but unfortunately he found his way back to his rational mind much too quickly.

Sansa was sitting beside him now, and he saw as she wrinkled her nose a little and wiped at her lips with the same lace-trimmed handkerchief she had used to catch her tears outside the keep. He grimaced, feeling rather guilty and discomfited, and wondered if he should just keep apologising.

But then Sansa put the handkerchief away and smiled at him, and he felt a little less out of sorts.

“I’m afraid the Fury’s arrival took us quite by surprise,” Sansa said, almost as if she were just continuing a conversation they had been having all along, “so we have not been able to put together a proper feast to welcome you back to your keep, my lord.”

Stannis looked at the canopy of his four-poster and sighed. Why did everything always revolve around _feasts?_

“You had not received word from Winterfell that the war has come to an end?” Stannis asked, focusing on what was important. He gave Sansa a grateful look when she covered him gently with the bedclothes, minding his wound and seeing to his comfort.

“No, we haven’t received any ravens from the north since my brother wrote with the news of Father’s death and your injury.”

 _Seven hells._ He had yet to offer her any condolences.

“Your father fought bravely,” Stannis said, struck anew by Lord Stark’s loss as he spoke the words. They had never been very close, but Ned had been his good-father, a fellow soldier and a thoroughly decent man. Stannis had respected Ned for his honour and his unwavering strong will, and he would remain in Ned’s debt for the rest of his life for agreeing to the marriage between himself and Sansa.

“Robb said so, too,” Sansa whispered with a sad smile, tears shining in her eyes.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” he said, trying to sound consoling and most likely not having much luck. Still, Sansa nodded and looked like she appreciated the attempt.

“He told me you were very special to him,” Stannis said, speaking hesitantly and wondering if it was his place to report such things.

Sansa took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes tightly.

“He also said he wished he had told you more often how proud you always made him.”

A half-stifled sob escaped his wife, and she grabbed blindly for his hand, clutching it with her own. Feeling useless and a little lost, he reached for the handkerchief she had placed on his nightstand with his free hand and gave it to her. It felt like a completely empty gesture since he knew for a fact that she had her own handkerchief with her.

Sansa opened her eyes to look at it and started to cry in earnest, sobbing loudly and allowing her tears to stream from her eyes in rivulets. 

They were both silent while Sansa composed herself, drying her eyes and blowing her nose delicately.

“Thank you,” she whispered, once she seemed to have regained control of herself, “I’ll have this washed and returned to you,” she promised.

Stannis nodded and hurriedly changed the subject to something that was not likely to make her cry. He explained very briefly about Daenerys Targaryen and the way she had seized the ravens, preventing communications from taking place. Sansa was curious to know more, but Stannis was starting to lose the ability to keep his eyes open. His injuries were exhausting on their own, the emotionally charged conversation with his wife had been draining, and the release Sansa had given him had made him terribly sleepy on top of everything else.

“Ask Arya about it,” Stannis said irritably when Sansa tried to ask him about the khaleesi’s dragons, “and send Maester Pylos to see me,” he added, saddened by the fact that he could not ask for Maester Cressen. The old man had been there for him since he could remember, and he wished he could have been there for his death -- wished he could have said a proper good-bye...

Sansa raised an eyebrow at him and he felt himself redden. “Please,” he added.

“I will send for him at once, my lord,” Sansa said, getting up from bed and attempting to smooth out the wrinkled silk of her gown. She frowned slightly when she was unsuccessful and made a tiny huffing sound.

“I shall have to change my gown,” she said quietly, obviously speaking to herself rather than him.

“The maester first, please,” Stannis reminded her as politely as he could, unable to disguise the pain and exhaustion he was feeling. He wanted Pylos to look at his wound and tell him how long it would be until he was fit again, and he knew that if Pylos did not give him a little milk of the poppy he would likely not sleep for very long. The pain always woke him when he started to turn in his sleep.

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa said quickly, hurrying from his chambers, her silken skirts whispering softly as she crossed the stone floor.

Stannis closed his eyes and hoped Sansa would be quick.

***

Sansa waited anxiously as Maester Pylos spent an eternity in the lord’s chamber with her husband. She knew pacing the corridor outside Stannis’ door was not the best way to make the wait seem shorter, but she also knew she would not be able to settle on any distraction.

Seeing Stannis emerge from the wheelhouse outside the keep had been overwhelming. It had been a relief to finally know that her husband was alive, that he had returned to her, and would be able to get to know Steffon. Steffon in his turn would not have to grow up without a father, and would perhaps gain another sister and hopefully at least a brother or two in time. Her heart had broken, however, when she had seen her tall strong husband look so pale, thin and ill. He hadn’t even been able to stand on his own, and he had been dirty and his beard had grown long and wild. She had not been surprised that Steffon had been wary of the stern, hairy man, but of course her brave boy hadn’t cried.

Sansa knew that if she had been injured and matted with dirt she would have wanted nothing more than to be clean and have someone pet and pamper her, so she had resolved to make certain her husband received exactly that sort of care. She had not lost her anger with him, but it would be petty and small-minded to leave an injured man uncared for, and her septa had taught her better than that. She knew him well enough to understand that he would dislike appearing weak in front of his servants, so she further resolved to care for him herself.

She was glad that she made that decision. If she had not helped Stannis undress she would not have seen with her own eyes that her husband had somehow managed to carry her favour through a war and back without so much as tearing it. It had looked a little less pristine than when she had given it to him two years ago, but it was obviously well cared for. 

It had taken a surprising amount of strength to demand Stannis’ apology in the face of his injury, but it did not truly surprise her that she had been able to find a sufficient amount within her. She had been learning to be strong ever since Robb’s letter. Still, she had not expected Stannis’ sincere plea for forgiveness, so it had been a very pleasant surprise when he had spoken so meekly. She had almost wanted to forgive him right away, injured and full of need for her as he had been, but she had also wanted him to understand how much he had hurt her, and she had needed to understand _why_ he had behaved so deplorably. She had needed to know he would attempt to do better before she had been able to grant him her forgiveness.

His reasons for his behaviour had surprised her, however. She had not expected that someone of Stannis’ age and experienced could suffer from the sorts of insecurities he had revealed to her. How was it possible for someone so strong and powerful to be so afraid? It almost seemed ridiculous to Sansa that he should be worried that he might not be enough for her. He was her _husband._ Of course he was enough for her.

Though she felt sympathetic towards Stannis and his fears, she would not allow her sympathy to get in the way of her determination to be treated with respect from now on. She would make sure that Stannis did not go back on his word and that he would behave with _honour_ in the future. She was quite hopeful that she would be successful in this as it had been remarkably easy to get him to speak politely before she had left him. She hoped that it meant that his manners were _there_ and that he just needed to be encouraged to _use them._

More importantly, she had seen him make a real effort to show her support and comfort in her grief.

Gods, it still hurt _so much_. Every time she thought of her father the urge to hide from the world and cry returned. Would she ever be able to think of him without feeling this way? She didn’t know whether that was what she wanted. It seemed right that she should feel devastated at his loss, and the thought that she might one day be able to think of her father without wanting to cry seemed _awful._

_I was special to him. He was proud of me._

Her father had not been the sort of man to speak of his emotions very often, so it felt both astonishing and gratifying to know that he had been thinking of her and that he had wanted to share his feelings of pride with Stannis even though they had been in the middle of fighting a war. 

But mostly it was strange to think of her father and Stannis discussing her father’s feelings at all. They were both such reticent men that she could hardly picture it.

Growing up with her father had helped Sansa learn to look for a man’s feelings in his actions rather than in his words, and though Sansa wished her father had spoken to her more often and more freely, she was glad of the experience. She believed it was already helping her understand what Stannis had tried to say by giving her his handkerchief when she had been crying.

_I care about you._

It was truly as if Stannis had returned from the war a different man, and for the first time since Sansa found out who she would be marrying, she started to hope.

_Maybe this Stannis will be able to love me?_

He certainly seemed to desire and _need_ her more than ever before.

Stannis’ desperate need for her touch had been flattering, and it had caused a surprisingly strong reaction within her. A burning heat she had not felt in two years had started to course through her -- the sort of heat she had not been able to create using her own hands. Thinking of it now made her flushed and a little breathless, but it also made her wonder if Stannis had felt the same thing. Did her presence create a fire within him that his own hands could not ignite? 

Or did he perhaps never pleasure himself using his own hands as she did? 

She found herself hoping, for his sake, that he did. She was almost certain he had not sought the company of another woman, and it seemed _very_ austere to go from taking her nearly daily for more than a month to abstaining from all pleasures of the flesh for two years. Jeyne said one of the stableboys had told her that all men pleasured themselves, but Sansa supposed that if anyone could manage to abstain from pleasure for two years it was probably Stannis.

Whether he did sometimes engage in that sort of activity or not, it had clearly been a long time since he had experienced a tender touch, as he had unraveled unusually quickly at her hands… and her mouth.

Sansa continued to pace and grimaced slightly at the bitter taste that was still lingering on her tongue. 

She hadn’t really meant to use her mouth on Stannis, but she had just spent all that time getting him clean and she hadn’t wanted the liquid that kept leaking from the tip of his manhood to get him all dirtied up again. She didn’t regret it, but she was starting to regret that she had been in too much of a rush to fetch Maester Pylos to eat or drink anything.

Finally Maester Pylos emerged and she rushed to his side, her worry most likely written plainly on her face.

“Will he recover fully?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her and trying not to fidget.

“I believe so,” Maester Pylos said seriously, “given enough time and rest.” He began to make his way towards the library and Sansa fell into step with him.

“How much time?” Sansa knew she should be asking for reasons that had nothing to do with the burning heat within her, and a part of her _was_ asking for all the sensible reasons, but now that she had forgiven him - and now that she knew that he cared for her and desired her greatly - a large part of her was finding it difficult to think of anything else. She wanted to mend what was broken between them, and she felt very strongly that it would be good for them both to renew the intimacy they had shared now that they had addressed Stannis’ concerns and fears. 

Besides, she had missed the pleasure of his touch, and the deeply satisfying feeling of his manhood filling and stretching her. She was quite eager to reacquaint herself with it as her fingers would never be able to imitate the special sensation of lying with her husband. (She was quite sure about that as she had tried everything when she had been pregnant and her body had been aching with need, night after night.)

 _Gods,_ she had missed her husband then.

Most of all, she wanted more children. Steffon had been her light in the darkness and she had never known how deeply she could love until she found what it was to love him. The risk and the pain would be worth it if she could have more chances at such a pure and beautiful love. In her mind she saw a little Jocelyn: a sweet little girl with long black hair that she would be able to brush at night before she went to sleep just as her mother had done for her. Sansa was sure Jocelyn would want to learn how to embroider and play the high harp, listen to stories and songs, and wear sweet little gowns just like she had when she had been younger. Sansa knew she ought to pray for more sons, for an heir for Dragonstone, and she did, but she hoped her husband would give her at least one daughter, too.

“A moon’s turn at least, my lady,” Maester Pylos said.

Sansa took a deep breath and nodded. “Could I do anything to aid his recovery?”

“He should be kept clean, dry and somewhat occupied,” Pylos said slowly, “I mean to speak to Ser Cortnay and Aren Florent about giving him some light work to do as he rests. He should be able to read and write letters.” The maester paused, but Sansa felt as if he had more to say so she kept quiet.

“His wound had started to heal quite well before he attempted to go into battle again, making himself worse,” Pylos said with a frown, “it will be important to make certain he does not try to start exerting himself over much before he is fully healed.”

Sansa blushed and wondered if Maester Pylos was indicating that Stannis should not lie with her too soon. 

“I understand.”

They parted ways and Sansa turned back to go to her chambers and change her wrinkled gown. She wanted to find Arya to ask her about this Daenerys Targaryen Stannis had spoken of, and it would not do to let _Arya_ of all people see her wearing a wrinkled gown.


	22. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a brief, non-graphic description of a folk tale where a baby dies. If you are sensitive to such things and would prefer to skip the description, the paragraph that deals with it starts with: "Old Nan told me ..." and it should be safe to start reading again when Sansa says: “He likes it when I play the harp for him, too,”
> 
> If you are interested in knowing more about the folk tale and the story that it is based on, see the notes at the end of the chapter.

It had been a fortnight since Stannis had returned to his keep and he wished Maester Pylos would allow him to do more than have a short walk from the door of his chamber to the end of the corridor and back. He understood that the man wanted him to heal properly, but he felt _fine._ Certainly hale enough to have Sansa sleep in his bed with him, but she was refusing to do so until Pylos said it was safe. (“What if I accidentally hurt you in my sleep, my lord?”)

Stannis gritted his teeth and finished his walk, glaring at Maester Pylos when the man insisted he go back to his chambers.

“Aren Florent is going to visit you in a moment,” Pylos informed him, “if you would rather meet with him in your solar I can call for a litter.”

Stannis was almost certain he would be able to manage the walk to his solar, but Pylos was a tyrant who controlled when Stannis would be able to lie with his own wife again, so he decided not to argue.

“I’ll meet with Florent in here,” he grunted, sitting down at a table that was not nearly as well suited to meetings with stewards as the desk in his solar. It would have to suffice, however, as he hated being carried about in a litter.

The meeting with Florent went as expected until his steward started to talk about the food stores and the shipments he was expecting from the Vale.

“The Vale?” Stannis barked, furrowing his brow in irritation. Since when had he been involved in a trade agreement with the Vale?

“Er, yes, my lord,” Florent said, looking nervous and confused, “we should receive a shipment of grain from the Vale within the next fortnight, and the wine and the lemons are due to arrive from Dorne the week after that.”

Stannis had to remind himself not to burst up from his chair as it would not do his healing flank any good. Pylos frowned upon shouting and getting upset as well, but there was no helping that.

“Wine from Dorne?” Stannis shouted, “who has been ordering these things?” he demanded, striking the table in front of him with his fist.

“The Lady Sansa and Ser Cortnay arranged for new trade agreements when the Reach began to send poisonous berries to us, my lord.”

There was silence while Stannis absorbed the words his steward had just spoken.

“Are you telling me,” Stannis’ voice had become deadly calm and he stared intently at Florent who had gone quite pale, “that the Tyrells dared threaten me and mine by sending poison to my keep?”

“Perhaps it was a mistake?” Florent squeaked, “these things can happen.”

“If it was a mistake I daresay my lady wife would not have felt the need to start trading with _Dorne._ ”

“I don’t know about that,” Florent said, sounding rather helpless, “all I know is that the current agreements are not much more costly than the previous agreement with the Reach.”

Stannis sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was starting to ache. “Send for Ser Cortnay.”

It did not take Stannis very long to pull the whole story from his castellan. The fury he felt when Ser Cortnay told him about the fact that berries were only lethal to children had him throwing his cup of water at the wall, denting it beyond repair, and turning his table over, causing both Ser Cortnay and Aren Florent to have to scurry out of their chairs and retreat to a safe distance. Maester Pylos would not be happy with him for ‘exerting’ himself, but Stannis did not care.

“Out!” he raged at the pair of them, wanting to be alone. 

He needed to write a letter to his brother.

_Brother,_

_It has been brought to my attention that your queen’s family has been responsible for sending poisonous berries as a gift to my lady wife following the birth of my son. Had Sansa eaten them and then nursed your nephew he could have **died.**_

_Additionally the Tyrells sent more of the cursed berries with the regular shipments of fruit from the Reach in clear violation of the trade agreements that our brother Renly had settled before his death. My lady wife and my castellan were forced to draw up new trade agreements with the Vale, the Riverlands and Dorne instead._

_I insist that you find the source of this treachery and put an end to it. I will have justice._

_Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm’s End and Dragonstone_

Maester Pylos was not best pleased with Stannis when he came to fetch the letter.

“You will not recover properly if you behave thusly,” Pylos said with a pointed look at the table that was still on its side on the floor.

“I feel fine,” Stannis growled, thrusting the letter at the young maester, “send this immediately.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Pylos said as he accepted the letter, “you should rest for the remainder of the day. I will be by with a tincture later, and I think it would be wise to change your dressing.”

“The wound is practically healed over,” Stannis complained, rubbing his face in frustration. His beard was close-cropped once more and the bristles felt rough under his fingers.

“There is still a slight risk of it opening if you do not take care to _rest,_ my lord.”

“Yes, yes,” Stannis grumbled, scowling at the maester.

“Would you like me to send for Lady Shireen?” Pylos asked, ignoring the scowl.

His daughter had been visiting him nearly every day. At first she had simply seemed to want to reassure herself that he was really back, but Stannis had encouraged her to return often as he found her company pleasing. Sometimes she read him passages from her books, sometimes she told him of her lessons, and sometimes she would speak fondly of her brother’s antics. 

Often she brought him fresh flowers for his chambers. (A remarkable feat considering it was the middle of winter.)

“I shouldn’t like to disturb her,” Stannis said, shifting from foot to foot. He liked it when Shireen came of her own volition, without being sent for.

Pylos nodded and looked pointedly at the four-poster.

Stannis sighed in exasperation but got back in bed. Much of his strength had left him since her had been injured simply because his muscles had weakened from disuse. He wanted to move about, start training with his sword again and regain his form. Most of all he wanted to be allowed to take his own wife in his own bed.

First he wanted to ask her why she had not seen fit to inform him of the Tyrells’ treachery, however.

Since his return Sansa had always brought Steffon to his chambers before the evening meal to allow him to spend some time with his son. Stannis mostly watched from his bed as Sansa sat with Steffon and played games with him or entertained him with a toy, but he was hoping that Steffon might want to interact with him more as the boy became more familiar with him.

Stannis thought back, remembering a fortnight’s worth of visits, and tried to calm himself down.

One day Steffon had been in a foul mood, screaming and crying and almost causing Stannis to lose his patience. Before Stannis was forced to take the drastic measure of asking Sansa to take their son away, Sansa had started _singing._ Stannis did not know why he had never heard his wife sing before then, but he quickly realised he had been grievously deprived. Sansa had a very sweet, clear voice, and Stannis would have liked to close his eyes and listen to her sing for hours on end. His son seemed to agree as he became quiet almost as soon as Sansa started to sing.

The haunting melody she had sung for Steffon had not been one that he had recognised, nor had he been able to understand the words. Sansa had later explained it was a very old northern lullaby, and that it always worked quite well to calm their son.

 _“He likes the melancholy old songs the best,”_ Sansa had told him with an odd expression on her face, _“but I hope he never asks what the words mean.”_

He had not liked the reason why.

_“Old Nan told me that the song tells the story of a lady who falls in love with a wildling and had a baby with him. But the wildling is an outlaw and doesn’t belong south of the Wall, so she decides to follow him north and become a wildling herself. The baby would not survive the journey and she is forced to leave it to die in the wilderness. She is singing the song to calm the baby and say good-bye.”_

_“Aren’t there any songs with less horrible stories that you could sing for him?”_ Stannis was still convinced that it could not be good for Steffon to hear such things.

 _“Yes, but he likes the songs with the sad stories,”_ Sansa had said.

Stannis had to admit - at least to himself - that he had liked the song, too. But he made Sansa promise not to explain the words to the boy until he was old enough to understand that he would most definitely not ever be left to die in the wilderness.

 _“He likes it when I play the harp for him, too,”_ Sansa had then said a little pertly.

Stannis’s face had felt very hot when he recalled how he had behaved due to the harpist Sansa had hired.

 _“Perhaps you could bring the harp next time you visit?”_ Stannis had suggested, swallowing his pride. He had thought that if her talent with the instrument was on par with her singing, he would not dislike hearing her play.

 _“As you wish, my lord,”_ Sansa had said, her smile widening slowly until she had been beaming at him, her eyes bright. Stannis remembered how good it had been to drink in her delighted expression and how he had felt an enjoyable warm sensation spread from his chest and throughout his body. 

Perhaps he should swallow his pride more often?

The day after that conversation, when Sansa had brought the harp, Stannis had been surprised to recognise the beautiful instrument.

 _“Where did you get that harp?”_ he had asked, remembering that he had seen it somewhere before.

 _“One of the servants found it,”_ Sansa had said slowly, _“should they not have given it to me?”_

 _“No, it’s… it’s fine,”_ Stannis had said in an attempt to sound reassuring. Stannis was certain that the harp had once belonged to his mother, and he recalled Renly laying claim to it at some point. A pang of sorrow had shot through him at the sight of the harp and the memories associated with it, but he did not mind Sansa using it. He supposed instruments were not meant to sit around and gather dust.

Sansa had played beautifully, and Stannis had found himself just as entranced by the melodies she coaxed from the strings as Steffon had seemed to be. He hoped Sansa could be persuaded to play for him alone sometime as he knew he would enjoy a private concert. Stannis recalled again the vivid images that had filled his mind at the time -- images of Sansa playing the harp wearing a small silk nightgown... or nothing at all. He had been forced to think of something else so that he would not become hopelessly aroused. (It would have been highly unseemly to become aroused with his son so close at hand.) He suspected that Sansa had noticed the heat in his gaze, however, as she had blushed and bit her lip for a moment when their eyes had met.

Stannis shook his head. He shouldn’t think about that now, either. He should focus on his hope for more contact with his son. It definitely seemed that Steffon was getting used to seeing him every day, and he wanted to believe that his son had started to show signs of being interested in interacting with him.

Today Sansa arrived just as she always did, looking distractingly beautiful and holding their son’s hand. Steffon walked slowly, but Sansa never seemed to get impatient with their little boy. She simply let Steffon set the pace and smiled down at him if he stopped to examine something he found curious. 

Stannis decided not to bring the Tyrell plot up quite yet and was pleased when Sansa sat on the edge of his bed with Steffon on her lap. They exchanged slightly stilted pleasantries, and though Stannis was still not quite used to performing his part in Sansa’s rituals of courtesy, he was getting a little better each time.

After a little while Steffon started squirming and trying to escape his mother.

“Let him go,” Stannis said, curious where the boy wanted to go that was better than Sansa’s lap.

“He might fall down,” Sansa said worriedly, a crease appearing between her eyebrows.

“You will catch him if he does.”

Sansa did as he asked, and to his great surprise Steffon immediately crawled towards him. The boy did not quite dare climb onto his lap, but he sat very close by and stared at Stannis with his wide Tully blue eyes.

“Baba,” he babbled knowledgably.

Stannis did not recall how much children at his son’s age usually talked, but he felt certain that Steffon had to be ahead of his peers.

“He calls Shireen and Bran Baba, too,” Sansa said with a fond look on her face, “Rickon, on the other hand, he confuses with Shaggydog. He calls both of them ‘daw’.”

A faint smile brushed his lips as he continued to observe Steffon, who was now attempting to stand up on the feather bed and not having much success.

“Come here my darling silly boy,” Sansa cooed, picking Steffon up and giving his nose a kiss. It was odd, but Stannis felt a painful stab of jealousy as he watched them. Sansa looked at Steffon like he was her whole world. It was a look of pure love, and Stannis realised with a pang that he wanted her to look at _him_ like that. He tried to squash the envious feeling, remembering Lysa’s jealous rage in the Eyrie.

“We need to get you something to eat,” Sansa said, using the special cheerful tone of voice she always used with Steffon.

Steffon immediately started to touch his mother’s teats expectantly, moving his head in a way that made it clear that he wanted to latch onto one of them. This made her glance at Stannis and blush faintly.

“I haven’t weaned him completely,” she explained.

He blinked at her, feeling a muddle of powerful emotions that were brought about by the image she had conjured in his mind. He had not seen her unclothed since his return, but he imagined her naked teats looked beautiful as she held their son to her breast and allowed him to suckle at her milk. He recognised feelings of fierce protectiveness, arousal and jealousy amongst others he could not name, and his heart had started to pound uncomfortably fast.

“Do you usually nurse him at this hour?” Stannis asked, feeling a little out of his depth.

“Sometimes,” Sansa said, struggling with Steffon as he was pulling at the neckline of her gown very insistently and making demanding noises.

“Let him,” Stannis said hoarsely, wanting to _see._

Sansa blinked and stared at him intently as if she were searching his face for something before nodding slowly. “Wait just a little while, sweetling,” she cooed at Steffon who was pouting very petulantly and still pulling at Sansa’s dress.

She moved until she was right next to Stannis, sitting with her back to the headboard of the bed, using one of his large pillows to make herself comfortable.

“Can you hold him for a moment?” Sansa asked, already handing Steffon over. Steffon seemed all set to start screaming at this treatment, but once he saw that Sansa was fiddling with the front of her dress, finding a cleverly concealed set of laces and undoing them, Steffon went quiet and still. He seemed to know that he was about to get what he wanted.

Meanwhile Stannis was able to marvel at the sensation of holding his small son in his arms. This was the first time he had done so, and it was very different from the first time he had held Shireen. She had been such a tiny thing - a newborn - and he had never had a child before her unless one counted Renly. Holding Steffon was at once more overwhelming and much less so. This was his _son_ and he was so _solid._ So _real._

The sight of his wife’s teats distracted both him and his son before long, but unlike Stannis, Steffon was soon allowed to latch onto one and start to suckle. Stannis was relegated to watching and feeling ridiculous about being jealous of a baby.

“He eats proper food, too,” she said as she gazed down at her son and stroked his hair, “but he still asks for milk every day.”

Stannis had no idea what made him bring the subject up _now_ but suddenly his mouth was open and words were coming out. “Why didn’t you tell me about the threats the Tyrells sent? Our son could have been _murdered._ ”

Sansa stopped looking down at Steffon and looked at him instead. He felt pleased for a moment to have her attention, but guilty and irritated with himself at the same time. His anger at not being told of the berries was also returning, and he scowled at Sansa, waiting for her answer.

“Lady knew the berries were poison right away so Steffon was never in any danger,” Sansa began, “and it did not seem right to bother you with it while you were at war,” she said, looking a little fragile all of a sudden, “I thought it would be best if Ser Cortnay and I handled it on our own.”

“I have been back from war for a fortnight,” Stannis reminded her, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s done,” Sansa said, her lips twisting into a pout just like the one Steffon had worn moments ago, “the new trade agreements have taken effect. There’s not much to say about the matter.” She no longer looked fragile at all. It was as if she had turned to steel before his eyes.

“The agreement with Dorne is very disadvantageous,” he grumbled.

Sansa’s lips thinned and she lifted her chin. “The agreement with the Vale and the Riverlands more than make up for it, my lord. I would also remind you that my dowry alone would make it possible for us to buy all the lemons that Dorne can produce twice over, at three times the normal price, for several _years._ I think we can afford these agreements quite comfortably.”

Stannis felt frustration and anger rise up inside him like a snake about to strike, but Sansa met his eyes steadily, her stubborn expression making it quite clear that she was not about to allow him to say anything disparaging about her trade agreements. Rather than risk an argument about her dowry - a subject that made him uneasy - he decided to change the direction of the conversation.

“Robert’s last queen caused a war that made the realm bleed,” Stannis said, “if Robert’s new queen is threatening the peace by endangering me and mine it is my duty to put a stop to it.”

“I really don’t think Queen Margaery is behind this,” Sansa said, looking down at Steffon with a concerned frown on her face. Stannis followed her gaze to the boy and observed as he suckled, oblivious to the serious nature of their conversation. He did not allow his eyes to linger as seeing so much of Sansa’s flesh exposed was likely to arouse him, and it was not appropriate to be aroused at the moment.

“If she fails to produce a male heir for my brother, I will be king after my brother, and Steffon after me,” he said, looking back up at Sansa’s face.

“I know, but she has always been kind to me.” There something very earnest about the way Sansa said those words, and Stannis was reminded of her youth. She did not know the ladies of King’s Landing like he did.

“Most highborn ladies are vipers with false smiles and even falser courtesies,” Stannis said bitterly.

“Queen Margaery gave me genuinely good advice that I remain grateful for to this day,” Sansa answered, shooting him another stubborn look, “it was her grandmother that spoke to me as a viper would. At our wedding feast, no less.”

Stannis asked what the Queen of Thorns had said and scowled at the answer Sansa gave him. The woman had _dared?_ She had shamelessly asked Sansa to sabotage what might have been his only chance to father a son? His fury boiled within him, and had he been under strict orders to rest he would have got up to pace the floor in his agitation. As it was he simply ground his teeth, the ache in his jaw not stopping him anymore than it ever did. 

“I suppose it might very well be that the queen is but an innocent in all this,” Stannis said once he had calmed himself down sufficiently, “Lady Olenna is a cunning, ruthless old bat. It is not unlikely that she is the one who is responsible, but I will not rule Queen Margaery’s involvement out.”

“I hope she has a son,” Sansa said quietly, looking down at Steffon again. He had stopped suckling and was looking back up at his mother in a way that seemed to be entrancing her.

“You do not think I could rule the realm?” Stannis bristled.

“What?” Sansa said, startled enough to tear her eyes away from Steffon in order to give Stannis an incredulous look. Again he felt the mixture of satisfaction and guilt at having gained her attention at his son’s expense.

“If Queen Margaery has a son I shall never sit on the Iron Throne.”

“Do you want to?” Sansa asked, blinking rapidly and cocking her head to the side.

Stannis frowned. “No,” he snapped, “I have no interest in a crown.” He had everything he had ever wanted. 

The realisation made him pause and furrow his brow. _Could that be?_

He had Storm’s End and he had a son. He looked down at Steffon and observed that he had started to suckle again. The sight of his wife’s teats made him redden a little as they reminded him of something he had that he had never truly thought to wish or hope for. An affectionate _beautiful_ wife.

But would he have Storm’s End if Daenerys Targaryen took the Iron Throne as she had threatened to do? Would he be able to keep the life he had fought so hard for? His wife and his son?

“My lord husband,” Sansa said the words respectfully, but her face was filled with confusion, “if you do not wish to be king, does that not mean that you hope Queen Margaery will have a son just as I do?”

Stannis did not know what he hoped. For Robert to be less successful at fathering children, perhaps? It would serve him right. Or perhaps he simply hoped that his wife would concern herself with wishing for more sons of her own. She should just want to have more children with him, and not waste her hope or her thoughts on the worthless Tyrell girl his brother had married.

He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. “As long as she does not give birth to any bastards I do not care.”

Steffon stopped suckling again and was now looking up at them both in turn with avid fascination.

“I think he’s full,” Sansa said, lacing herself back up much too quickly. She also left the bed and put Steffon down on the floor where he immediately started to walk around. Stannis wanted Sansa to come back to bed. He wanted his son to go somewhere else for a little while, and he wanted to take the time to remove Sansa’s gown entirely and see what else had changed about her body -- other than her teats swelling in size. He wanted her attention to be focused completely on him, and he wanted to _have her._ Pylos and his warnings be damned.

“If it please you, my lord, I should like to take my leave,” Sansa said meeting his eyes for a moment before hurriedly looking away with a blush.

He almost refused her, but Steffon was with her and the boy would hardly sit quietly while Stannis attempted to get a brother or sister for him into Sansa’s belly.

“Go then,” he sighed. He regretted his tone and his lack of courtesy when he saw Sansa purse her lips and shoot him a reproving look, but was too late to do anything about it. 

She had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click here](http://sarahtheblack.tumblr.com/post/139996776798/icelandic-lyrics-sof%C3%B0u-unga-%C3%A1stin-m%C3%ADn-%C3%BAti) if you want to listen to the song Sansa sings for Steffon and Stannis. There you can also see the lyrics and my rough English translation.
> 
> The real story behind the song is pretty much identical to the one Sansa described. The lullaby is from an Icelandic play about the life of a real Icelandic outlaw, Fjalla-Eyvindur, and his wife, Halla. In the play Halla is forced to give up her baby so that she can stay with her true love, and she sings the lullaby before throwing the baby into a waterfall. (I have no idea if that is based on true events, or whether that was added to the play for drama.)
> 
> If you think Halla's decision was horrible and evil, please bear the following in mind:
> 
> "As for Halla and Fjalla-Eyvindur… killing their own newborn is horrifying, of course. But sometimes, in the harsh reality of Iceland’s past, parents had no other choice. There were already too many mouths to feed and every other child was dying of hunger or disease anyway. Or the mother was not married and would have to face horrible punishment if her guilt of pre-marital sex were brought to light (although the child’s father would be off the hook, naturally), and a fate worse than death could be awaiting the child. It would often be taken away from the mother and become a niðursetningur, a pauper, and be sent to a farm, often as some kind of slave. It would have to work harder than anyone else, survive off the scraps from the table and be subject to bullying and beating." - Quote taken from [this article.](http://icelandreview.com/stuff/views/2007/12/06/creepy-lullabies)
> 
> This is a really popular lullaby in Iceland and is sung by many parents. Usually only the first verse, though.
> 
> Anyway, I was struck by how well the grim, melancholy feel of the lullaby fits with my idea of the north of Westeros, and I felt like it was the sort story Old Nan would know.


	23. Affection

_Brother,_

_Why in the seven hells are you moaning about berries when you should be begging for mercy? I told you to kill Daenerys Targaryen years ago. You failed then, and you failed again at the Wall!_

_My master of whisperers tells me that the girl is on her way to the Red Keep and that she commands a vast army and at least one dragon! Why did you not make port in King’s Landing on your way south in order to do your duty and tell me everything there is to know about this?_

_I’ve heard that you’re injured, but that’s no excuse. Come to King’s Landing at once._

_Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

Stannis grimaced at the letter that had been delivered by a lone rider from King’s Landing. Robert had clearly not deemed it safe to entrust his words to a raven.

He supposed he would have to answer Robert’s summons despite how annoying it would be to be forced to travel again. Being in King’s Landing might give him an opportunity to identify the source of the Tyrell plot, however, even if he had to endure Robert’s anger to get it done. 

Pylos would hate the idea of him going all the way to King’s Landing. The maester had only given him permission to walk at will around the keep scarce hours before the rider with the letter had arrived, and Stannis was still not allowed to resume strenuous sword training, nor was he to ride a horse. He grimaced, realising he’d be obliged to suffer the journey inside a wheelhouse.

On the other hand, Pylos had said that ‘mild physical exertion’ was encouraged. Stannis was hoping that those words meant that his wife was finally being returned to him. He felt as if Pylos had been holding Sansa hostage in order to keep him compliant -- forcing him to rest endlessly, drink one tincture after another, and do everything the maester thought prudent.

It was easy to blame Pylos, but Stannis knew that it was quite likely that he could blame himself for the lack of intimate contact with his wife, too. Though Sansa would not go against Maester Pylos’ recommendation that she avoid sleeping in the lord’s chambers, Stannis suspected he could have persuaded Sansa to pleasure him the way she had done when she had washed him if he had wanted to. But he had been too proud to ask for it and she had not offered. More than proud, he was anxious that Sansa should not grow irritated with his desire for her touch before he was able to lie with her _properly._

She still brought Steffon to see him every day, however, and he usually encouraged her to let him nurse if the boy showed any inclination to do so. She had been a little hesitant the first two or three times, but yesterday she had bared her teats without a hint of a blush, and seemed perfectly at ease with him. 

Steffon continued to call him Baba, was usually content to let Stannis hold him for short spans of time, and often seemed quite enraptured when Stannis spoke. Spending time with the boy made him feel more and more impressed with how big and strong he already was, and how clever and energetic. He was certain that there could be no finer boy in all the Seven Kingdoms.

These feelings of paternal pride did not stop Stannis from feeling jealous whenever Sansa gazed at the child as if Steffon were the centre of her world. They did not stop his chest tightening whenever she cooed her soft endearments at the boy, and held him tenderly to her breast. Her endearments sometimes had him wondering what it might be like if she ever called _him_ her dearest or her darling, and those thoughts frustrated him and made his jaw ache worse than anything. He wished he could simply banish them from his mind forever as it was not becoming of a high lord to be jealous of a child that had only seen one nameday, and unseemly to insipidly fantasise about his wife calling him her _dearest_ while longing for her touch and her kisses.

Insipid or not, today he would not wait until she brought Steffon to see him, he decided. He would summon her to his solar at once and find out whether she would join him in his chambers that night.

… and tell her about Robert’s letter, he supposed. He would not go to King’s Landing without her.

***

Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, their respective direwolves were all silent. Bran’s horse could be heard snorting or moving impatiently, but otherwise the clearing in the godswood was as quiet as a grave.

Ever since Sansa had brought her brothers to the clearing to tell them of their father’s death they had been coming back to at regular intervals to look upon the heart tree, pray, and remember him. Arya started to join them as soon as she had arrived at Storm's End, though she tended to go deeper into the woods than the others. It felt important to honour their father in this way, and Sansa cherished these moments even though they brought her grief back -- almost as fresh as it had been on the day she had received the news from Robb.

“I’m glad you forgave him,” Bran suddenly said, breaking the silence.

“Father?” Sansa asked, feeling confused. She did not feel that her father had done anything that had especially required her forgiveness.

“Lord Stannis.”

That made more sense to Sansa and she nodded distractedly, her gaze fixed on the long face carved into the heart tree.

“You seem happier,” Bran continued, speaking softly.

She was happier. Perhaps not at the present moment, filled with grief as she was, but most of the time. 

Stannis had been talking to her, treating her with a remarkable amount of courtesy considering how abrupt he usually was, trusting her with all sorts of matters without second-guessing her, and when they had argued about the Tyrell plot he had been reasonable. He hadn’t said hurtful things and he had _listened_ to her. He had treated her with respect even though he had clearly been angry.

Sansa understood why he had been angry and did not blame him for it. She knew she should have told him of the matter sooner than she had done, but there had been so many other things on her mind that she simply hadn’t thought of it.

It was good to know that they could argue in a civilised manner. 

It was good to know that she could argue with him and _win._

She thought about how her mother had almost always been able to get her way with her father and smiled faintly. Was her relationship with Stannis becoming more like the relationship her parents had shared? The idea pleased her, and she was certain that her father would be pleased, too.

Her father had not had much of a choice when King Robert had asked that he give her hand to Stannis, but he _could_ have gone against his friend and his king. He _could_ have said no. Therefore he must have hoped that she would be able to find happiness as the Lady of Storm’s End. He must have thought it was possible or he would not have agreed to the match. She had to believe that.

Sansa closed her eyes and focused on the sound of the wind and the trees, wondering if her father was speaking to her.

“I am happier,” Sansa said, realising that she had yet to answer her brother.

She would be even happier still if Maester Pylos would tell her it was safe to resume _all_ her duties as Stannis’ wife, but she had waited two years. She could wait a little longer if it meant that her husband would recover properly from his wounds.

Still, it had surprised her that Stannis had not asked her to pleasure him again as she had done when he had first arrived. She could tell that he desired her as he looked at her with heat in his eyes almost every time they were near each other, but for some reason he had not called on her to comfort him in that way. Lately she had been wondering if he did not like wasting his seed in such a manner. His affection for Steffon was obvious, so perhaps he wanted to forgo pleasure until he could take her properly and chance that his seed would quicken?

She quite liked that idea. She wanted Stannis to want more children.

“Someone is coming,” Rickon suddenly said, distracting Sansa from her thoughts.

It was Jeyne. She looked like she had been walking quite fast.

“Lord Stannis has sent for you,” Jeyne said breathlessly, addressing Sansa, “Ser Humfrey was trying to find you and I told him you would probably be in here, so he asked me to get you.”

“Do you know why?” Sansa asked, furrowing her brow. Stannis rarely sent for her. He usually waited until she brought Steffon by if he needed to talk to her about something in particular.

“No, but Shireen told me that Maester Pylos told her that Lord Stannis has had a letter from the king.”

Sansa’s heart started to beat very fast. There must have been something important in that letter if her husband could not wait a few hours to tell her the news.

“Let us hurry back to the keep, then.”

***

Stannis paced around his chambers and waited for Sansa. She had promised to find him as soon as Steffon was asleep, and Stannis knew the boy did not stay awake for more than an hour or two after the evening meal.

When Stannis had asked Sansa to come with him to King’s Landing she had been surprised and a little confused. Somehow she had found out that it had always been his habit to leave Selyse behind when he had travelled from Dragonstone to the city, and had expected him to keep to the same pattern. Stannis had been obliged to explain that he did not wish to parted from her, but moreover that he believed she would be of great use to him. He had not forgotten how much easier it had been to gain and keep the attention of those he had wished to converse with at his wedding feast when Sansa had been there to smooth his way. Sansa had readily agreed to go once he had given her his reasons, though she had insisted on taking Steffon along. Their son was still nursing, and though Stannis had argued that the boy could easily be weaned as he ate mainly solid food, Sansa would not hear of being separated from him.

 _“If I am to accompany you to King’s Landing, my lord,”_ she had said, _“Steffon is coming with me.”_ There had been a note of finality in her voice that had taken Stannis by surprise. He had never really heard his gentle wife sound quite so determined, and due to his surprise he had simply nodded and accepted her terms without further argument. He had not wished for her to be cross with him.

At the present moment there was something wrong with his heart and his lungs. Every time he thought he heard something that might indicate Sansa might be about to knock on the hidden door that led to the passage between their chambers his heart started to beat wildly and irregularly and his lungs seemed to stop working at all. The third time it happened he made himself sit down at his table and read some of the letters that had accumulated there in order to distract himself.

When Sansa finally did arrive, he was so absorbed in a letter from Davos that he didn’t hear her first knock. He didn’t hear when she chose to let herself in, and he didn’t hear her robe dragging behind her on the stone floor as she walked over to him. He _did_ feel her hand on his shoulder, however, and somehow managed not to betray how startled he was at the soft touch.

“My lady,” he said, sounding adequately dignified despite the fact that his heart had started to beat much too quickly again.

“My lord,” she answered, squeezing his shoulder lightly before letting go, “you’re still dressed.”

She most certainly wasn’t. Her robe was hanging open to reveal a nightgown of silk and lace that caressed her curves exquisitely. Stannis looked back at his letter when he realised he was staring like a fool.

“Shall I call for someone, or would you like me to assist you?” Sansa asked, walking to stand behind him, placing her arms around his neck in a loose embrace.

Aware that she would be able to read the letter if she chose, Stannis put it away. There was not really anything in it that was not fit for Sansa’s eyes, but he disliked the feeling of having someone read over his shoulder. Sansa seemed more interested in placing chaste kisses on his cheek and neck than reading any letters, however. Her lips were warm, full and so very _soft,_ and he was immediately filled with the desire to feel them against his own.

It was awkward at first to kiss her lips so deeply -- almost as if he had forgotten how. But soon he remembered how best to tilt his head, how to curl his tongue, and how to breathe through his nose so he wouldn’t have to break the kiss too early. Sansa tugged on his doublet, indicating that she wanted him to stand up, and somehow he managed to do so without parting his lips from hers. They were standing with their bodies pressed together, her teats soft against his chest, and Sansa wound her arms around his neck again, letting her fingers brush against the back of his head and the nape of his neck. He pressed his hands against the small of her back, trying to bring her into even closer contact, wanting her to feel his arousal.

Sansa moaned and broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “The doublet first?”

Stannis nodded and they both fumbled with the fastenings a little clumsily before getting the damned thing off. He started to take little steps towards the four-poster as they did away with his shirt and his breeches, taking them ever nearer to his goal. He pushed her robe off her shoulders at some point because he had started to feel that they were unequally exposed, and by the time they reached his feather bed he was only in his smallclothes while Sansa’s nightgown was nearly unlaced.

Stannis intended to exert just a little pressure to push Sansa to fall backwards onto the bed, but perhaps he had been a little too forceful in his excitement, for she sounded quite startled as she was suddenly swept off her feet. Stannis was unconcerned as her fall was broken by the soft bed and climbed in after her, leaving his smallclothes on the floor. He _needed_ her.

“I missed you, my lord,” Sansa whispered as he pulled impatiently at the few ties that still held her nightgown closed.

Knowing that he would not be able to produce any coherent words in the state that he was in, he just kissed her collarbones and continued to tug at the silk that was coming between them. Finally it fell away, revealing Sansa’s naked body to him for the first time since he had left for the Wall. He could tell she had undergone some changes due to her pregnancy, but the changes did nothing to lessen her beauty. Her abdomen was not quite as flat, her waist was not as tiny, and her hips seemed a little wider, but this only served to make her more womanly and less girlish, which was decidedly to his liking. Her teats he had seen often as she had nursed Steffon, but now they were _his_ to touch, kiss and suckle at, and Stannis enjoyed having them to himself.

“Oh, be careful,” Sansa said when milk started leaking from the nipple he had in his mouth. She sounded embarrassed, and when he looked up he saw that she was blushing bright red.

He met her eyes for a moment, aroused beyond belief and unable to express himself, and then he went right back to what he had been doing, lapping up the milk and only barely restraining himself from attempting to make her produce more. The taste was not truly to his liking, but the knowledge that the milk was there because of the child he had put in her - the _son_ she had given him - was powerfully heady.

Sansa flinched and made a discomfited sound when he put his hands between her thighs to feel whether she was ready, and he realised he had forgotten to be as gentle as he ought. He furrowed his brow and tried again, trying to remember how to touch her. The right movements came back to him quickly, and Sansa moaned with pleasure when he recalled how to use the pads of his fingers to rub gentle little circles. She was already damp and burning with heat, but the noises she was making made him want to continue touching her for a little longer. She was growing quite loud, singing his name, squirming beside him and breathing in a way that made her breasts heave very attractively.

He wondered if he should attempt to… with his mouth…

Memories of a few boastful stories Stannis had heard assaulted him, and he wondered if it was true, that women could be made to scream with pleasure if men licked between their legs with great skill. He reddened and frowned at the thought. He had never tried it. What skill could he possibly have?

Still, he wanted to offer to do it. As recompense and as a show of good faith.

She had done the same for him.

Feeling too embarrassed to speak of such things, he simply moved down Sansa’s body, kissing a nervous trail towards his goal. He was still rubbing careful circles and Sansa was still squirming and moaning with pleasure. She did not seem to have realised what he intended to do.

That changed when he removed his fingers and replaced them with his lips, pressing a hesitant kiss to her most intimate of places.

She gasped and tensed up. “Stannis?” She rose to her elbows and looked down her body at him. He swallowed, kissed her again and met her eyes.

“What… ?” She did not seem to be able to find the words to convey her question. She was blushing very deeply and her eyes were dark with arousal.

“I have heard that women can be pleasured in this way,” he said, proud of how steady he sounded, “I should like to try it if you are willing, my lady.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, blinking at him and biting her bottom lip, “I suppose - yes... if you like.” There was something shy and embarrassed in her tone, but he detected excitement, too, and curiosity.

He took a deep breath, shifted around until he was as comfortable as he was likely to get, and hoped he would be able to make this pleasant for her. He remembered where she liked to be touched with his fingers, surely using his tongue could not be so very different?

It was a relief when Sansa let herself fall back, resting her head on a pillow and no longer observing him. She widened the gap between her thighs accommodatingly and relaxed her previously tense muscles. She was trusting him.

With another deep breath that filled his nose with the musky scent of her arousal, he started to experiment with more kisses. Her curls were soft when his lips brushed against them, and he wondered what his beard felt like to her. She was making encouraging noises, so he supposed it was not bothering her.

It took him a while to work up the courage to taste her, but he was spurred into action when he realised that the healing wound on his flank would not allow him to stay in his current position forever. 

She tasted… strange. 

Not like anything he had tasted before. It was not precisely unpleasant, but he did not much like it, either. He preferred her scent. Sansa’s reactions were making his tentative licks worthwhile, however. She was already moaning, and when he ran his tongue over the slightly swollen place where she always liked to be touched she _squealed._

Emboldened by sounds of pleasure, Stannis ignored the strange taste and started to lap at her folds with no small amount of deliberation. He was determined to do this properly if he was to do this at all. A steady rhythm seemed sensible, so he chose to maintain one.

It was rather uncomfortable and tiring to do this, but Sansa’s increasingly loud moans were encouraging, and he was very curious about whether he could make her scream like the women he had heard his fellow soldiers brag about. It definitely sounded as if she were nearing some sort of peak. His work was absorbing, so he was surprised and discomfited when Sansa’s thighs suddenly came together around his head, pressing in on him uncomfortably. His head felt squashed, he could barely see, and it became hard to breathe. It was _too much._ He used his hands to pry her thighs apart and and moved his head back as soon as he had the room.

Sansa whimpered and lifted her hips in an attempt to chase his mouth.

“Please don’t push,” he said, echoing Sansa’s words from a frequently revisited memory.

“I won’t, I won’t, please keep going,” Sansa babbled, sounding feverish.

She kept her thighs obediently parted after that, and Stannis got back to work, listening for Sansa’s reactions and using them to attempt to get her back on track towards her peak. It did not take him very long to get her there after he started to experiment with suckling at the red, swollen flesh that seemed so sensitive. He had recalled how good it felt when Sansa had done the same to his most sensitive places, so trying it had seemed logical.

Sansa’s cries became muffled, as if she had placed a pillow over her mouth, and then - yes - it was muffled, but she definitely screamed. Stannis stopped suckling and went back to licking for a little while, risking a quick glance up at his wife to confirm that she was indeed clutching a pillow to her face. When she let go of the pillow Stannis thought it was time to stop. He wiped his mouth on the bedclothes and moved to lie on his back beside her, enjoying the significantly increased comfort of his new position.

“I - I liked that,” Sansa whispered, pressing herself against his good side, “thank you, Stannis.”

Stannis did not know what to say. He wished she would dispense with words entirely and just touch his cock. Listening to her moans for the past several minutes had been highly arousing, and his need had become very great. He wanted to climb on top of her and take her assertively, but to his consternation he realised that his wound was still a little too tender to allow it. It would be wiser to have her sit astride him, he thought, and upon realising that her full teats would be in plain view right in front of his face, he warmed considerably to the idea.

Stannis tugged on Sansa, trying to indicate without words that he wanted her to sit up.

“My lord?” Sansa said, confusion in her tone.

“Come here,” he explained, his voice coming out hoarse and deeper than usual. Sansa blinked a few times, and then understanding dawned on her face. She immediately swung one of her legs across his body, straddling him and trapping his cock between her burning centre and his lower abdomen. The sensation of her _drenched_ folds rubbing against him and the sight of her before him was overwhelming. He had to close his eyes for a moment and think only of breathing. But it was impossible to keep his eyes closed when Sansa was naked and right _there._ When he opened his eyes Sansa was looking right at him, and he saw how her bright blue eyes had darkened with desire. He marveled at the fact that such a woman could want him. It should be impossible, but he could not argue with the evidence. She was flushed with arousal, and her hair was already dishevelled and falling in loose waves over her shoulders. He reached for a thick auburn lock and tucked it behind one of her perfectly normal ears, stroking her cheek as he did.

“Are you certain this will not hurt you?” Sansa said, biting her lip and looking at the angry red scar on his flank.

He growled at her and placed his hands on her hips, pulling her down to grind against him, moving his hips to rub her with his cock at the same time. She was _absurdly_ wet after what he had done and he was determined to have her. He had been injured enough times in the past to know that this wound would not open again unless he did something very dim-witted.

Sansa moaned his name in a way that convinced him that doing this with her was far from dim-witted. Indeed, he was certain this was the most intelligent thing he had ever done, and he encouraged her to rise up so that he would have room to line himself up with her entrance.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he groaned embarrassingly loudly when the head of his cock slid into her sheath for the first time in two years. When she started to sink down, taking him in slowly but surely, he moaned her name and reached for her waist, holding onto her for what felt like dear life. If one could die of pleasure he was certain he was close to doing so. She felt much tighter than he had expected and _much_ more wet. As uncomfortable as it had been to lick her, he thought it might be worth doing regularly just to feel her sheath welcome him in such a way. He was vaguely aware that Sansa was mewling due to her own pleasure, and found himself glad to know she was enjoying herself. It seemed ridiculous to him that he had judged her so harshly in the past for finding pleasure lying with him, when it was so obvious now that it was how it _should be._ Davos had been right all along; Stannis was fortunate to have a wife who enjoyed his attentions and he should count his blessings.

Sansa stopped when she had taken the full length of him inside her, sitting still and quiet on top of him. He bucked his hips and tightened his grip on her, trying to encourage her to move, but she remained resolutely still. He opened his eyes to glare at her and ascertain what she could possibly mean by her behaviour, but was so taken aback by the way she was looking down at him that he quite forgot his irritation.

She was looking at him heatedly, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips - red and swollen from their kissing - slightly parted and tempting. But there was more than arousal in her eyes. There was a tenderness that was recognisably similar to the tenderness she always had in her eyes when she looked at their son, and it was that tenderness that made his breath catch in his throat.

“Did you not also miss _me_ , my dearest husband?” she asked, her voice soft and a little playful. She squeezed her inner walls around him just as she spoke, and a needy sound left his throat without permission.

“Yes,” he choked out, reddening with arousal, embarrassment and the simple _heat_ of what they were doing, hoping she would start to move if he answered her. Hearing her call him her dearest was doing something very strange to him. He felt as if his chest was too small, or his heart too big, and he did not know what to make of it.

She bent down to kiss him, seemingly unperturbed at the idea of tasting herself on his tongue, and started to move back and forth, grinding against him as they kissed. It was good, but not what he needed. He did not complain, however, since she distracted him thoroughly when their kiss broke by moving so his nose was practically buried betwixt her teats. He brought his hands up to brush his thumbs over her nipples, liking the way they stiffened at his touch, and very much enjoying the way Sansa responded by speeding up her movements and moaning.

When he could bear it no longer, he moved his hands from her teats to her waist, using what strength he had left in him to encourage her to rise up until just the head of his cock remained inside of her, only to quickly pull her back down as he thrust up to meet her, creating the most delicious friction. He repeated the motion again and again, feeling as if he were watching her ride an unruly stallion. He looked on in lust-hazed fascination as her teats bounced and her head fell back in ecstasy, and thought there could be no better view anywhere in the world. Her hair was so long that he felt the ends of it brush his thighs as she exposed her neck to him and moaned throatily, and he wondered if she would allow him to run his hands through it later.

It was unfortunate and shameful, but his stamina was sorely lacking, and he felt his climax approaching mercilessly. He tried to hold himself back, aware that Sansa had not reached a new peak, but she felt too perfect around his cock and looked too beautiful for words. His release was impossible to delay.

“Sansa,” he managed to say, though he sounded strangled and out of breath, “ _Sansa._ ”

She stopped moving and bent down to kiss him again. He allowed it, but soon broke the kiss to stare at her in helpless confusion. _Why had she stopped?_

“Are you almost…?” she asked with a shy smile.

He made a pathetic noise that he almost refused to believe originated from his own throat.

She kissed once more and began performing the same slow back and forth grinding movements she had started with. He was so close to his release that it was nearly enough to push him over the edge, but not quite.

He tightened his grip on her waist in desperation and groaned, too fatigued to force her to move faster.

She kept the slow movement up for a torturous while, but eventually she took pity on him and sped up; the sharp increase in friction making him climax nearly at once. She kept moving, obviously chasing her own pleasure, and it was almost too much for him to tolerate as he had become quite sensitive following his release. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, holding tightly onto her thighs.

He felt it before he heard Sansa gasp: the way her inner muscles clamped down on him with surprising strength when she peaked. The way she was moving was really causing too much _intense_ friction, however, and he grunted with discomfort, itching to push her off but unwilling to interrupt her while she was clearly in the throes of her pleasure.

“Stannis, oh, gods! _Stannis!_ ” she sang, making it all worth his while.

As glorious as it was to listen to her, she thankfully did not linger on top of him for very long. Soon she was tucked under his arm, her head nestled against his neck and the warm length of her body pressed against his good side again.

He felt exhausted, but pleasantly so, as if he had been drained of all tension. He tentatively reached for a lock of her hair, twisting it around a finger and enjoying how soft it was.

They lay in silence for a long time, but eventually Sansa spoke.

“Do you think there will be another war?” she asked, concern and sorrow in her voice.

Stannis heaved a sigh and wondered why she would think to bring such a subject up when he was feeling at peace for once.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, “but I doubt Robert will want to relinquish his crown without a fight.”

“But surely there is no sense in fighting a dragon?” Sansa pointed out.

“It would be sensible to attempt to settle the matter without shedding blood or setting fire to the Red Keep,” Stannis said, sighing again and bringing a hand up to rub at his face, releasing her hair.

“What do you think will happen?” Sansa asked, her voice so quiet that he had to strain to hear her even though she was pressed right up to him.

“Daenerys Targaryen believes she is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I doubt she will be easily turned away. Two of her dragons are dead, however, and most of her Dothraki savages,” Stannis said, wondering whether Sansa knew that the remaining dragon was more loyal to Jon than to Daenerys, but deciding not to mention it. “The Unsullied are fearsome warriors, and more loyal to the khaleesi than any sellswords I’ve ever known,” he continued, “they pose a significant threat, I will not pretend otherwise, but there has never been a queen on the Iron Throne, and Daenerys does not know Westeros and its people as Robert does.”

Sansa started to trail her fingers over his chest, toying with the dark hairs the way she had often done before he had left. He wondered if she knew how much he liked it or whether she did it for some other reason he couldn’t fathom.

“What will happen to us if Daenerys wins the throne?” Sansa asked, sounding worried and subdued.

Stannis had no idea. All he knew was that he would do his utmost to make certain that no harm came to his family. Even if he was obliged to fight a dragon.

“I will not allow any harm to come to you, my lady,” he swore, his tone solemn.

Sansa pressed herself closer and kissed his neck. “Do not allow any harm to come to _yourself_ , my lord,” she whispered, “you have only just been returned to me and I wish to keep you.”

Stannis wished he could see her face so that he might attempt to see if there was a lie in her eyes, but all he had to judge her truthfulness by was the tone of her voice as her face was quite hidden. The tone of her voice had sounded genuine and rather insistent, but that could hardly be right. Could it?

“I - er,” he began, feeling utterly foolish, “I should like to keep you as well, my lady.”

He was glad that she was not looking at him. He was grimacing due to his insipid words and most likely turning very red based on how hot his entire face felt.

But Sansa did not seem to think he was foolish at all judging by the way she was kissing and licking at his neck, humming happily, and wriggling against him. _Still a friendly kitten_ , he thought, tightening his hold on her.

“I’m sure things will turn out for the best,” Sansa said then, sounding a little sleepy.

Stannis did not see how she could be sure of that, but did not contradict her. He would simply have to make certain that things _did_ turn out for the best for her sake. The Targaryen girl had been quite taken with Jon, and Jon was his friend. Perhaps that would prove useful…

“Yes,” he said quietly, wondering if he should make her a promise he had no idea if he would be able to keep. It did not take him very long to make up his mind. “I will take care of it,” he promised, feeling determined to do just that.

“For Steffon?” Sansa asked, and he imagined he could feel her smiling against his neck.

“For you.”

***

Sansa froze and held her breath. Had she really heard Stannis say what she thought she had just heard him say?

She no longer felt sleepy at all; her previously languid body suddenly taut and full of nervous energy.

It had been wonderful when he had said that he wanted to keep her, but to indicate that he would take on the Dragon Queen for her sake…

She almost wanted to ask this strange new man what he had done with her cold, unfeeling husband, but she did not think that he would be amused by such questions. Or perhaps he _would_ be amused? Perhaps this warmer Stannis would smile at the notion?

After the way he had pleasured her with his mouth she was ready to believe that anything was possible.

Sansa felt as if the tentative hope that had been growing within her, nurtured by every tender moment she had shared with Stannis and Steffon over the past month, had just burst into bloom. If she closed her eyes she could see in unfurling, and it felt just as rare and precious as a winter rose.

She was glad that her face was hidden against Stannis’ neck. Her eyes were filling with tears and she knew she would start crying if Stannis were to look at her.

Sansa wished she could speak to her father one last time. She wished she could tell him that even though Stannis was not the husband she had dreamt of as a little girl, and even though Sansa’s life as a married woman was not what she had expected, she had still found happiness.

True happiness.

She was no longer the little girl she had been. She was a mother now, and the lady of a great keep. She was strong, and she was _brave._

“I love you,” she said, kissing his neck and rising up to look him in the eyes. They were wide and startled. She knew that her own eyes were glassy with unshed tears, but hopefully Stannis would understand that they were tears of joy.

Stannis blinked rapidly and swallowed several times. His cheeks were reddening and he opened his mouth as if to speak only to close it again right away.

Sansa watched his eyes, trying to see into his soul. He was unguarded in his startlement and Sansa saw more than she had ever gleaned before. There was fear, but no suspicion. There was surprise, but no irritation. There was hesitation, but no doubt.

“I… “ Stannis began, his voice hoarse, “I think…”

He closed his eyes tightly, took a deep breath and opened them again. He looked very determined now. Sansa tried to keep her own face from showing how anxious she was to hear his response to her declaration. She did not wish to rush him, so she made herself patient.

“Would you accept my love?” he finally asked, his eyes still unguarded. It was plain to Sansa that he did not quite dare to hope.

“Yes,” she said, the word coming out in an emotional rush, her tears escaping along with it. She smiled and almost laughed when Stannis just stared at her in shocked disbelief.

“You’re crying,” he said, furrowing his brow.

“I’m happy,” she explained, the laughter she had just tried to suppress bubbling up despite her efforts.

The crease between his eyebrows deepened and he looked even more bewildered. There was a pleased light in his eyes, however, and Sansa decided that she could not stand to wait for him to straighten it all out in his head. She kissed him and pressed the entire length of her body to his as tightly as she could. She felt as if she could simply not get close enough to him. Stannis kissed her back with a burning passion and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and threading the fingers of one hand through her hair. 

Sansa felt welcome and safe in his embrace, and a warm sensation that had nothing to do with the heat of arousal was spreading through her. It seemed to originate from her heart -- as if it were suddenly pumping sunlight through her veins.

She was loved and she was _home._

 

**The end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's not quite the end. There will be an epilogue, so stay tuned.


	24. Epilogue

Spring had come in the south, though winter lingered in the north.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had sent her consort to Storm’s End on a royal errand, and Sansa insisted on feasting Ser Jon lavishly despite all of Stannis’ protests.

“Jon does not need a troupe of mummers,” he had snapped when Sansa had asked to hire one, “nor does he need all these musicians!”

Somehow Sansa got her way in the end.

Stannis had to admit that the welcome feast she organised was a well-planned, pleasing affair. Feasts seemed much less arduous with Sansa on his arm in any case, and with Jon as the guest of honour it was difficult to be bothered by a few mummers. 

In the past he never would have thought he could feel as positive towards a feast as he did now. He had never felt at home among cheerful, drunken people who seemed to care very little about decency and too much about music, entertainment, and dancing. No one had ever wished to stay in his company for long at feasts, nor speak with him of matters that needed to be discussed. He could recall many feasts that he had been obliged to attend in King’s Landing where he had ended up standing alone, ignored and disliked, and those memories had never done much to increase his fondness for such _merry_ events.

With Sansa beside him that never happened. Everyone in the feast hall of Storm’s End cheered when they entered, and everyone would likely cheer when they left. Stannis never had any trouble getting anyone to stay and listen when Sansa was there to charm them into wanting nothing more than to discuss road repairs with him, and her enjoyable company in and of itself meant that he could not feel cast aside and abandoned. 

He did not even mind it so terribly much that she insisted that they must always share at least one dance when they attended a feast together. Dancing with Sansa was no great chore, and she was always careful to choose sets that he was both familiar and at ease with. He secretly relished the fact that their dances afforded him with several opportunities to stare at her without being unseemly. She always looked so beautiful when she bedecked herself in her finery, had her hair so carefully brushed and curled, and her skin treated with fragrant oils so that it appeared yet more soft and flawless than it usually did. 

Then again, she looked beautiful even when she was bedecked in nothing at all. Stannis liked her appearance best when she was naked and disheveled in his bed.

“Shireen seems pleased,” Sansa whispered at one point during the feast, nodding towards the part of the hall where the dancing was taking place. There were several couples on the floor, and Stannis saw his daughter dancing a few paces from Lady Jeyne Clifton and her new husband Ser Humfrey.

Shireen was _glowing_. She was dancing with her betrothed, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall, and her smile was lighting her face up in a very flattering way. Shireen moved with every bit as much grace and poise as Sansa always did when she danced, and his daughter was wearing a gown that even Stannis could understand was very fine, though he never paid much attention to fashion.

“Yes, it appears you were quite right,” Stannis said, giving his wife a faint smile, “they are well suited.”

“I’m so glad he agreed to the match,” Sansa said, smiling happily at him return, “he was always my first choice for her.”

“Of course he agreed,” Stannis said, raising an eyebrow, “the dowry I offered him was more than generous.”

Sansa squeezed his hand and gave him a soft look that felt almost like a kiss. “I’m sure Lady Selyse would have been pleased with everything you have done for Shireen.”

He hoped so. He had not loved Selyse, but she had given him a daughter and she had died in an attempt to bear him an heir. It was his duty to honour her memory by giving Shireen her due.

“Yes…” he said, looking over at Shireen again, “just as I am pleased with everything you have done for her.” 

Sansa had been the one to arrange it all. She had made a list of appropriate suitors, encouraged him to speak to Shireen and ask for her opinions regarding the names on the list, made sensible suggestions regarding Shireen’s dowry without giving him too much grief over her _own_ dowry, and once Lord Dayne had agreed to the match she had made certain that he would be invited to visit Storm’s End. She insisted that he should be properly introduced to his bride to be, and she insisted that Shireen should get to know her future lord husband with time to spare before the wedding.

“I care very deeply for Shireen,” Sansa said, gazing at his daughter along with him, “I want her to be happy.”

“The marriage agreement we negotiated ought to keep her well protected,” Stannis said, feeling a little uncomfortable with Sansa’s sentimentality.

Sansa gave him an affectionate smile. “I’m sure it will.”

***

It was now the third day of the royal visit, and Stannis was sitting with Jon by a roaring fire, feeling warm and glad - despite everything - to have his friend by his side.

“Have you had any word from your brother?” Jon asked hesitantly, sounding as if it had taken him three days to work up the nerve to ask the question.

“Last time he wrote he was boasting about being voted Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and asking whether I could send some summerwine and pretty girls from the south to Mole’s Town,” Stannis said, irritated that his brother could not even have the decency to _pretend_ to take his vows seriously.

“Did he not ask after the prince and princess?” Jon asked, sounding surprised.

“Why should he ask me after them?” Stannis retorted, “they are in your care in the Red Keep, are they not?”

“Yes, of course,” Jon said, furrowing his brow, “but I should imagine that your brother would want your opinion on whether they are well treated. He would trust your word better than mine.”

“You are Ned Stark’s son,” Stannis said, bitterness seeping into his voice, “in Robert’s eyes that makes you his nephew. He is just as likely to trust your word as he is to trust mine.”

Jon went very still and his long serious face - so very like Ned Stark’s face when he had yet lived - twisted into a deep frown.

Jon frowned for a long time, clearly thinking something through. Stannis left him to it, sipping his water while he waited for Jon to speak.

“I’m not,” Jon finally whispered, staring into the fire, “I’m not Ned Stark’s son.”

Stannis snorted derisively. Any imbecile could see Jon had Stark blood in his veins.

“He told me,” Jon said, shooting Stannis a defiant look, “while we were at the Wall. He told me that I was his sister’s son. Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.”

Stannis blinked at Jon in utter disbelief. That story was surely some invention of Ned’s?

“It makes sense,” Jon said with a sigh, “why else could I have controlled and ridden Rhaegal?”

Stannis had never really thought about why it was that Jon had been able to forge a bond with one of the queen’s dragons. The fact that the other two dragons had been controlled by Targaryens should probably have made him question it. Perhaps Stannis had not thought over much about it because Young Griff and Viserion had perished in one of the first battles where dragons had been pitted against white walkers. Stannis did not as a rule waste time thinking about dead Targaryens and their dead dragons.

“Why have you kept this to yourself?” Stannis asked, his voice a harsh bark.

“Dany knows,” Jon said with a helpless shrug.

Stannis glared at Jon, but managed to keep from grinding his teeth. Sansa disliked it when he did that.

“Ned Stark was my father in every way that matters,” Jon said stubbornly, “he is my blood, and he is the one who took me in and lied to make sure his friend, _your brother,_ would not have me murdered.”

Stannis knew that Robert would most certainly have attempted to have Jon murdered if he had known he was Rhaegar Targaryen’s get, so he did not argue with his Dragon Knight.

“I do not talk about my parentage, out of respect for him,” Jon added, setting his jaw and meeting Stannis’ eyes without wavering.

Stannis nodded slowly, and watched as Jon seemed to relax into his chair. 

Daenerys had always claimed that Jon was fit to be her consort as one of her dragons had chosen him. She had ignored those who would insist she choose a more worthy consort: someone not born on the wrong side of the blanket. Stannis understood why she was happy to keep the truth of Jon’s birth a secret. Targaryen supporters might take it into their heads to make Jon king and have him marry a woman capable of birthing heirs.

“I trust Prince Moryn and Princess Mina are well?” Stannis said, changing the subject.

“They are. Dany dotes on them,” Jon said, a hint of a sad smile brushing his lips, “she would have made a good mother.”

“And how does Margaery Tyrell fare?” Stannis asked, a stab of vicious satisfaction making itself known at the idea that the Tyrell girl was a silent sister now, unable to cause his own wife any grief and unable to bring glory to her house. He only wished he could have seen Olenna Tyrell’s face when she had received the news of her granddaughter’s fate. But then, perhaps the Queen of Thorns considered herself a victor despite Margaery’s loss of rank? Queen Daenerys had made Princess Mina her heir, after all.

Stannis had never been able to prove that Olenna had been the one who had made sure Sansa was sent those poisonous berries, but he _knew._ It had been difficult to keep from confronting her about it, but when Prince Moryn was born the dangerous gifts stopped coming, and the matter became less pressing. It had been much more pressing to prepare for the imminent arrival of Daenerys Targaryen.

Stannis had not forgotten the matter, however.

“She is well,” Jon said, “as far as anyone can tell.”

Stannis sipped his water and Jon toyed with his own cup without drinking from it.

“Sansa told me you two are expecting another child,” Jon said at length, breaking the silence, “congratulations, my lord.”

Stannis smiled briefly and nodded. “She is perhaps three months along,” he said, repeating what Maester Pylos had told him, “so she ought to give birth right after Lady Stark does.”

Robb Stark had surprised many when he had chosen a Frey bride, but Stannis and Sansa had attended the wedding and when he had seen Roslin Frey Stannis had understood why Robb had not balked at allying himself with the notorious house. She was a fair and gentle maiden and was already proving her worth when it came to providing Robb with children. Still, Stannis was certain Lady Catelyn Stark had arranged the match. The Freys were from the Riverlands just as she was, and Lord Frey would likely have sent his daughter north with a generous dowry. She had not been sent with a septa of her own, however, leaving an opening that Septa Mordane had filled. The septa seemed devoted to Roslin, which had pleased Sansa.

“It did not take Robb very long to get her with child,” Jon said, sounding amused.

“He needs an heir,” Stannis said reasonably.

“He is hardly desperate for one,” Jon argued, “Bran and Rickon are there, after all.”

Stannis grunted, acknowledging Jon’s point. 

“Sansa told me she has missed them ever since they left Storm’s End,” Jon remarked, “she didn’t say anything about Arya, though.”

Stannis grimaced. As much as he had appreciated how Arya had squired for him when he had been injured, he was beginning to think that if he never heard her name again it would be too soon. Sansa had been outraged for a month when Arya had taken off with Gendry the blacksmith, married him in secret and escaped to Essos to ‘have an adventure’. It had been bad enough to listen to Sansa go on about it on her own, but when she and her mother had started to bleat about when they had been in Winterfell for Lord Stark’s wedding, Stannis had been obliged to make himself scarce lest he end up with an aching skull. He did agree with his wife to a certain extent, and he could not understand what had possessed Arya to be so reckless and ungrateful towards the family she owed her allegiance to, but he also knew that Arya meant no harm and he was fairly certain she would not get herself killed. Still, it had been dishonourable of her to marry a lowborn bastard blacksmith. She should have married a lord and provided him with heirs. It was her duty as a highborn lady, and more importantly, it was her duty to treat her eight thousand year old bloodline with respect.

“The less said about your youngest sister, the better,” Stannis grumbled. Despite his disappointment with Arya he could not help but be quite grateful to the girl for removing one of Robert’s bastards from underfoot. Edric Storm was bad enough on his own. That was an opinion he kept to himself, however.

“Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have attempted to stop her spending all that time talking to Tyrion Lannister at the Wall,” Jon said, looking thoughtfully at the fire, “I think he gave her ideas.”

Stannis recalled the Imp and his irritating tendency to simply say anything ‘clever’ that occurred to him, and wondered what had become of the halfman.

“Does the Imp still advise the queen?” Stannis asked, recalling that Daenerys had made good use Tyrion’s cunning mind.

“He recently moved to Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin was found dead in a garderobe some weeks ago and Tyrion is now the Warden of the West,” Jon explained.

Stannis hummed and raised an eyebrow. When last he had seen Tywin the man had seemed in perfectly good health. How convenient that he should be found dead all of a sudden... 

It would benefit the queen if the Warden of the West was someone loyal to her - someone who did not pose as much of a threat as Lord Tywin had done - but not as much as being Warden of the West would benefit Tyrion. The thought of Tywin’s likely murder left a bitter taste in Stannis’ mouth. He had despised the man, but the Old Lion had been a _high lord_. There was nothing Stannis could do about any of it, however, as he had no proof that Lord Lannister’s death had been unjust.

Still, perhaps he would make some subtle enquiries.

Jon changed the subject, and Stannis put the matter from his mind, choosing to focus on Jon’s questions about the best way to root out corruption in the City Watch.

They lingered in the warm den until Jon started to complain of fatigue, and parted ways after that. Jon walked towards the finest guest chambers in the Storm’s End with two members of the Queensguard trailing after him, their white cloaks nearly brushing the floor in their wake, and Stannis headed by himself for the lord’s chambers.

He thought briefly of visiting Sansa’s chambers instead, but reminded himself that she was _with child_ and that it would not do to disturb her. It had been about a moon’s turn since Maester Pylos confirmed that she was pregnant, and Stannis had made sure not to share her bed since. It was unseemly for a high lord to seek to slake his lust with his wife when she was already carrying his child, and he was determined not to bother her with his base desires. No matter how much they both enjoyed it.

His own hand would serve well enough if the urge did not leave him by the time he attempted to fall asleep.

Oddly enough, Sansa had not seemed entirely pleased with him for leaving her be for the past weeks. She had even started to visit him, appearing in the late evenings through the door that connected their chambers. He had been obliged to lock it, even though he never usually kept it locked. It was just too tempting to have her near him, behaving as a friendly kitten and reaching for him even though she _knew_ it was improper.

When he opened the door to his chambers to find Sansa lying on his bed, he was therefore both surprised at how she had found her way there, and overwhelmingly aroused at the sight of her.

She was not wearing anything at all, and he had not seen her naked for an entire moon’s turn. There was no clear sign of her pregnancy as of yet, and therefore quite difficult to remember why he should not simply strip naked himself and take her like she obviously wished him to. When she saw him she raised herself up to her elbows and parted her legs invitingly. She was _beautiful_ with her long, auburn hair tumbling freely over her shoulders and down her back, her ivory skin glowing in the candlelight, and her blue eyes darkened with desire. With her legs spread like that, he could see her curls easily, and a glimpse of her glistening folds. Perhaps he was imagining things, but he thought he could smell the scent of her arousal from across the room. He felt as if every drop of hot blood in his body had rushed to his groin as he observed her, creating a heavy insistent pressure against his breeches that he knew would give him no peace until it was tended to.

When she reached a hand towards him with a faint blush, it caused a half-forgotten memory to rise to the forefront of his mind, and he almost had to sit down.

Had he not long ago imagined what it might be like to have an evening just like this? A long conversation with Jon by the fire followed by finding his wife on his bed, naked and longing for his touch?

Stannis realised he had neglected to breathe, and gulped in a lungful of air, unable to take his eyes off his seductive wife.

“Come to bed, Stannis,” she said softly, licking her lips and drawing his attention to them. When was the last time he had kissed those lips?

He stood still, unable to think properly and unable to move.

Another memory surfaced as he breathed in the scent that he was now certain permeated the air. He recalled how he had once found her flushed and aroused in her chambers, how he had interrogated her about it, and how she had told him the mere thought of him had aroused her.

The question rose to his lips as if he had always meant to ask it, even though the opposite was true.

“What have you been doing to make yourself so flushed?” It was the same question he had asked years before, but his tone was much less accusing. He was curious and aroused, and he hoped Sansa understood that he was referencing the past without ill intent.

If Sansa had been blushing before it was nothing to how she reacted to his words. Her face and neck went crimson, and even her chest looked pinker than usual.

“I - I was thinking of you, my lord,” Sansa stammered at first, but gained confidence quickly when she noticed the faint smile on his lips.

“Truly?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes…” Sansa breathed out, fluttering her eyelashes at him rather attractively, “thinking of you and - “

“And?”

Sansa searched his face and he attempted to smooth out his features, not wanting her to believe he was in any way displeased with her. He was unbearably curious about what she had been about to say before she had cut herself off, and he knew she would be more likely to speak if she did not think he would become angry.

Sansa ducked her head in embarrassment and whispered a word he had to strain himself to hear.

“Touching.”

Stannis blinked at her. Touching? Touching what? The urge to snap at her to explain herself properly was very strong, but he resisted it and shifted from one foot to the other. Making sure to sound as calm as he could he hesitantly asked her what she meant.

Sansa met his eyes, her face still very red, and seemed to consider his question for a very long time. Suddenly she moved her hand, and still meeting his eyes she delicately placed the tips of her fingers over the sensitive spot just below her mound where he often touched or licked her.

He swallowed thickly and tried to breathe normally as his frantic thoughts created a jumble inside his head. Stannis knew most men used their own hands to achieve release on their own, but he had never considered that a woman - a _lady_ \- might do the same thing. Had she been doing this the first time he had asked her what had made her so flushed?

“I wanted to make myself ready for you,” Sansa whispered, her uncertain gaze growing heated again, “you know Maester Pylos says it’s perfectly safe for us to lie together,” Sansa continued, a note of pleading in her tone.

“It’s unseemly,” he choked out, looking at the way her teats rose and fell with her every breath. Thinking about Sansa touching herself as she waited for him was arousing him beyond all reason. He felt half _mad._

“Don’t you enjoy taking me?” Sansa asked with a small pout.

 _Seven hells,_ woman!

He curled his hands into fists to keep his fingers from reaching for Sansa. Unfortunately it seemed that his legs had regained the ability to move, and he was taking one step after another, bringing himself closer to the bed. “It is our duty to lie together in order to produce heirs,” he said, sounding unconvincing and distracted even to himself.

“Can it not also be your duty to please your lady wife?”

He was standing at the edge of the four-poster now, and Sansa moved to kneel on the bed in front of him, rising up and bringing her head to the level of his shoulders. She didn’t touch him, however, though she looked up at him with her heated gaze.

“You are already with child…” he muttered, feeling himself redden at the idea that she simply wanted him to _pleasure_ her. 

_She has done as much for you,_ a voice that reminded him oddly of Davos said in the back of his mind.

“Please,” she said, begging him with her words, her tone, her expression and her entire body, “my own hand is not enough. I need you.”

He knew propriety dictated that he ought to send her away, but the words refused to come, and his fingers went to the fastenings of his doublet instead. He could not refuse her. It was terribly improper, but she said she _needed_ him, and it excited him more than he cared to admit.

Besides, if Pylos said it was safe...

Sansa smiled at him in delight when she saw that he was going to give in to her wishes, and she started to unlace his breeches. He was already fully hard from the sight and the scent of her, and her touch made his cock twitch impatiently.

As soon as his clothes were discarded she encouraged him to lie on top of her and rub himself against her wet folds. She was more than ready for him, and arched her back and moaned as soon as the head of his cock came into contact with her.

“Please,” she begged desperately, “ _please!_ ”

He thrust inside in one smooth stroke once he had found her entrance, groaning at the intense sensation of being gripped by her searing hot sheath. Sansa wrapped her long legs around him, keeping him deep inside and forcing him to stay still for longer than he would have otherwise. She kissed him, tangling her tongue with his and moaning into his mouth, her hands clutching at the back of his head and one of his shoulders. He felt her inner muscles clench around him, and he had to break the kiss in order to catch his breath. She loosened her legs and he started to thrust, quickly drowning in the pleasure of the wonderful friction he was creating. Through the fog that had settled over his senses he heard Sansa’s moans and they spurred him on. Soon he had risen up and moved Sansa’s legs to rest against his chest as he continued to drive himself into her with all his might, pleasure racing up his spine with each thrust. He knew this was an angle Sansa liked, and it was not long until he felt her clamp down on his cock and start to sing his name as she peaked. 

“Oh, my lord, oh, please, Stannis, _Stannis!_ ”

He could sometimes last through her peaks and continue, but it had been too long for him, and the way she was fluttering around him was impossible to resist. He sped up to an impossible pace, gasping her name as his release caused tendrils of heat to explode from his loins to every other part of his body, turning his muscles to milk and his bones to so much porridge.

It took him a while longer than usually to return to himself, but when he did he was lying on his back next to Sansa, her body nestled comfortably against his.

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, noticing that he was no longer insensible.

Stannis felt his face redden. It always seemed embarrassing to be thanked for such things. He couldn’t answer her because he had no idea what to say, so he kept silent.

Sansa started to pet him and toy with the hair on his chest. He returned the favour as he often did by running his fingers through her thoroughly disheveled tresses.

“Do you ever do it?” she asked, sounding a little shy.

“Do what?” He could not think what she could possibly be referring to.

“You know… we were just speaking of it,” she whispered, her tone bashful.

He furrowed his brow and stopped stroking her hair. Before he could ask her to clarify he suddenly realised what she meant. She wanted to know if he ever pleasured himself.

“Er,” he started moving his hand again, nervously carding his fingers through Sansa’s hair, “sometimes.”

His face felt very hot. Why was she asking him about these things?

“How wasteful of you,” Sansa teased, her voice light and happy.

“Hush,” he grumbled. This was embarrassing.

Sansa giggled but didn’t say anything else about the matter.

They were quiet for a while.

“Do you think we will have a daughter or a son?” she asked him at length, and something about the way she spoke seemed languid and dreamy.

“Either would be equally welcome.” It was true. Queen Daenerys Targaryen had seized Dragonstone for Prince Moryn, and it was no longer quite as urgent that Stannis father two sons for his two keeps. Stannis only had Storm’s End to contend with now. It was enough.

“You would not mind if we had a girl?”

Stannis knew it would be beneficial to have more sons to secure the lineage, but daughters were good for strengthening ties with other houses, and if Sansa had a daughter he would have a fine reason to attempt to get her with child again soon thereafter...

“I would be well pleased if you gave me a healthy daughter,” he said, releasing her hair in favour of tightening his hold on her briefly.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Sansa was quiet for a little while, drawing patterns on his chest with one of her fingers, her breath warm on his neck.

“Could we - I mean, I know it is your right to name the baby, but I just wondered…”

Stannis waited for her to finish, wondering what she wanted.

“I just wondered if we might name the baby after my father,” she whispered, sounding hopeful and sad both at once.

“Eddard if you bear a son, Dara for a daughter?” he suggested, his throat constricting slightly with sympathy for Sansa’s enduring grief.

“You wouldn’t rather think of some other names?” There was something utterly vulnerable about the way she asked her question, and Stannis was flooded with an intense need to protect her.

“I wouldn’t. I believe naming our second born for your father would be very appropriate,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

Sansa thanked him very sweetly with a chaste kiss. 

“Oh, but I really like the name Jocelyn for a girl!” she then exclaimed, biting her lip.

“Perhaps we will have more than one daughter,” he pointed out, a smile tugging at his lips. He wouldn’t mind.

“I should like to give you sons and daughters aplenty,” Sansa said, her tone becoming dreamy again, “many more beautiful babies with ink black hair.”

He kissed her then, unable to restrain himself.

Once her lips were really quite swollen, the skin around her mouth rubbed raw, and they were both out of breath, he desisted.

Sansa mewled and embraced him tightly, throwing a leg across his body and pressing herself to him wherever she could reach.

“Might I ask you to leave your door unlocked as you always used to?” She loosened her hold and rose up to look him in the eye, her gaze heated. He wondered if he had perhaps not satisfied her completely -- a thought that caused him considerable dismay.

“It’s just - I miss you at night,” she said, her affection for him clear in her voice, “I enjoy our conversations and your company.”

Stannis stared at her.

“I also miss your touch,” she went on, writhing against him distractingly, “I find myself with all these _needs,_ ” she said, still looking at him with lust-darkened eyes, “and I can’t help wishing for your attentions when they overwhelm me.”

Stannis swallowed thickly. What Sansa was suggesting was improper and lustful, and he really should say no.

Sansa smiled at him as she waited for his answer, and though her eyes were full of heat, she looked at him with the sort of expression he had used to feel jealous of when she had only looked that way at their son. It had been a very long time since he had felt jealous of Steffon, however, as Stannis received those looks from her in equal measure these days. Best of all was when the three of them were alone together and Sansa would look at him and Steffon in that soft adoring way and call them her _darling boys._ He always pretended to be indignant at being called a _boy,_ but Stannis suspected that Sansa saw right through his pretense. He was very relieved she did as it would upset him greatly if she ever stopped saying those sorts of things when he could hear.

Stannis found himself kissing his wife again and doing his best to push his old ideas about propriety from his mind. Sansa always took care of him in every possible way. It was only proper that he should take care of her and her needs in return.

Their lips broke apart after a lingering kiss, and Stannis stroked Sansa’s soft cheek with the pad of a thumb, unable to keep from touching her.

“As you wish, my lady.”

_My love._

**Really the end now**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the story as much as I've enjoyed writing it and sharing it with you all.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [BlueCichlid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/pseuds/BlueCichlid) for holding my hand through the process of writing this and giving me such wonderful advice.
> 
> More special thanks to [Tommyginger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/pseuds/Tommyginger) for her important work as muse and sounding board.
> 
> Finally, I would like to give each and every person that has taken the time to comment a big giant hug, but as I am in Iceland and most of you are probably not, I will have to settle for giving you a giant THANK YOU instead. You guys are the best. ♥


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